
Class HS G 35 

BookJZiiaJilUS 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSTT. 



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(olonel (Tiabert, >c 










"pie j^ajor. 



BY 



0,, l) HOLDSHIP. 









^ 






CONTENTS. 



PREFACE, .... 
THE MAJOR, . . . 
COLONEL CHABERT, 



Page. 



TMP96-006399 






PREFACE 



In regard to ' ' Colonel Chabert, ' ' I would preface 
that it is a dramatization of Balzac's tale, "Z<? 
Colonel Chabert" a short story in his u Scenes de 
la vie privee." I have endeavored to retain the 
original wording and arrangement as much as 
possible, especially in the character of Colonel 
Chabert, but in many instances have been com- 
pelled to alter and omit in order to meet the neces- 
sities of dramatic action. I would also add that 
some time after this drama had been commenced — 
the entire work having been planned and partly 
executed in the latter part of 1890 — I was advised 
that a similar work was in preparation for the 
French stage. Whether this latter has ever been 
completed I am not aware. 

As to "The Major," being intended for a lever 
du rideau, its position is, of course, proper. I feel 
this apology is due Balzac for placing my own com- 
position before his masterly characterization. 

December, 1892. 



the: major. 



AN ORIGINAL COMEDY 



ONE ACT. 



V7 lc t2 X } 



G. I. HOLDSHIP. 



Copyright 1892. 

BY 

G. I. Holbship. 



THE MAJOR 



CHARACTERS. 

Major Bowendale. 

Henry Lawson. 

Dick Lawson, his son. 

Mrs. Larrimar. 

Alice Larrimar, her daughter. 



Scene — Larrimer summer residence at the seaside. House 
at left center. Lawn and walks to front and back. Rocking- 
chair and hammock on porch. Cushions on steps. Garden 
seat to right. 

Time — The present. 



THE MAJOR. 



Mrs. Larrimar discovered seated in rocking chair on porch 
sewing. 

Mrs. Larrimar. — James! James! Do come out 
.here, instead of stewing yourself up in that close 
room. The breeze out here is delightful. James! 
Do you hear? Bless me, the dear man is so intent 
on his book that he has probably forgotten that he 
has such a thing as a wife. Well, that is what it is 
to marry a student. There he sits day after day 
and night after night, wearing his dear old eyes out 
over his precious Greek roots, or his Egyptian 
hieroglyphics, and totally forgets that he ever had 
such troublesome things as a wife and daughter. 
By the way, where is Alice? I haven't seen her 
since luncheon, and it must be nearly four now. 
She said she w r as going for a walk — down to the 
hotel, probably. Dear me, what a hole! How on 
earth do men make such holes in their socks? In 
the heel, too. How uncomfortable it must have 
been. But then, I don't suppose he knew he was 
uncomfortable, or if he did he thought it was a 
Greek root that troubled him. Now, if Robert 
hasn't forgotten to water that hanging basket. 
The earth is as dry as punk, I can see from where 
I sit. I must — oh! You nasty little beast ! (start- 
ing up, dropping her work, and brushing wildly at 
the back of her neck.) Ugh! I would rather meet a 



10 THE MAJOR. 



wild hyena than one of those long-legged animals. 
{enter Alice from right.) 

Alice. — Why, mother dear, what is the matter? 
You have dropped all your work. Wait, let me do 
it. (she picks up basket.) 

Mrs. Larrimar. — Thank you, dear. It was 
one of those daddy-long-legs. You know I never 
could bear even the thought of one. Oh, you may. 
laugh. I know it's very foolish of me, but the 
moment one touches me I feel as if someone were 
scraping my backbone with a knife. Ugh! {she 
shudders and rubs the back of her neck.) I feel the 
beast yet. Did you have a nice walk, dear? It 
must have been very hot in the sun. Where did 
you go ? 

Alice. — Oh, I went down to see Jenny, but her 
husband came last night, so I didn't get much good 
of her. The way she dotes on that man is wonder- 
ful, considering she was going to be so independent 
and do so much when she was at school. So I 
gave her up to her husband and sent them both out 
for a walk, and played with the baby. She is get- 
ting sweeter every day, the baby, I mean, and I 
tell Jenny I am going to run off with it some day. 

Mrs. Larrimar. — Bless me, child, you would 
be a pretty one to take charge of a baby. It 
would be all very well while it is laughing and 
crowing, but just let it get an attack of the colic, 
and you would be stuffing it up the chimney or in 
the icebox. You are the sweetest little daughter 



THE MAJOR. 11 



in the world, but you are just like your father, 
dear man, and you both know more about Greek 
than you do about babies, and can work a problem 
in algebra quicker than you could darn a stocking. 

Alice. — It's a slander. I can darn a stocking, 
too. Here, give me that stocking instantly, and 
let me prove it to you. {she tries to take the sock 
from her mother.) 

Mrs. Larrimar. — No, no. I have nearly fin- 
ished this one and I don't want to have to rip it out 
again. Try one of your own stockings in the bas- 
ket, if you must do it. Dear knows there are 
enough holes in them. There, take that one. 
There is the needle. Now, get to work. If you 
darn that stocking, and wear it afterwards, why, I 
can say you are a genius. 

Alice {darning.) — Why, of course I can do 
it. You put the knot here, then run over and 
catch this side, then back again, over, and back. 
Why, it's as easy as rolling off a log. 

Mrs. Larrimar {inspecting her work.) — Yes, 
rolling off a log is supposed to be very easy. And 
so it is — to roll off, but the hard part is to roll off 
so you don't hurt yourself. And I am afraid, my 
dear, if you were to put that on you would think 
you had a log in your shoe, from the size of the 
knot. In the first place, you don'c make any knot 
in darning, and in the next place you shouldn't run 
your threads so far apart. That would do very 
well for a mosquito bar, but I am afraid it will 



hardly do for a stocking. 



12 THE MAJOR. 



Voice in the House (in a very loud tone.) — 
Now, where is my pipe ? I had it a moment ago, 
and now it's gone. Harriet, have yon seen it? 

Mrs. Larrimer. — He has lost his pipe now. 
Poor fellow, how these little things do worry him, 
when he notices them. He probably has it in his 
month, and it has gone ont. Yes dear, I am com- 
ing, (she goes in house.) 

Alice. — Mother is the sweetest woman. Every- 
thing she does is just right, and she makes every- 
body feel so comfortable without the least effort on 
her part. And she doesn't have to know Greek to 
do it, either. I wish I were more like her. I have 
gone through college, but I can't darn a stocking 
the way she does. I shall have to learn, though, 
if I marry Dick, (she works violently for some 
moments. ) Poor Dick ! He dees so hate the Major! 
I can't help teasing him a little when he shows 
his dislike so plainly, and then the Major is such a 
conceited man. He never imagines anyone could 
quiz him. But for the very absurdity of the thing 
one would think that he is in love with me, — or 
papa's money. I have thought several times he 
was going to propose to me, but I am not going to 
let him do that if I can help it. Well, I don't 
think that's as well done as it might be. Why it's 
rough and drawn up like that I can't imagine. 
(she looks at it gravely.) No, I don't think I should 
like to wear that. It doesn't look comfortable. In 
fact, it looks decidedly uncomfortable. I think I'll 
let mother finish that, (she throws it in basket, 



THE MAJOR. 13 



and rises.) I do so love flowers, and Robert has 
such nice ones. He will hardly let me smell them, 
though, he is so careful with them. Who is that 
coming up the walk ? Why, it's the Major. He 
seems to be in a hurry, too. Dear me, I am not fit 
to be seen. I must run. (she runs hurriedly in 
house with sewing basket. Enter Major immed- 
iately after.) 

Major. — She has gone in. I thought I would 
have caught her here, but I am too late. She 
could not have seen me. Yet stay ! Can she sus- 
pect ? No, I have been too circumspect. Men may 
find out that my feelings are not warlike ; that I 
am not ferocious ; that my outward seeming is but 
assumed. But with women I may play my part 
without danger of discovery. Nay, I must retain 
the reputation I have gained with them. The 
stake is too great. If weakness threatens to over- 
come me the thought of her, 

Fair vision of delight, 

The loadstone of my life, 
Thy presence stays the wight 

Who woes thee for his wife. 

Poetry! (lie starts and looks around.) Have I 
betrayed myself? No, I am alone. Alone ! Then 
let me feast my hungering soul on that forbidden 
fruit. Away, away, my thoughts. Seek then thy 
native heights, far as the eagle soars from the 
things of this mundane life. Ah, no, they cannot 
fly, weighed down by sordid cares. Oh, my curses 
on the uncle, who, before my race began, laid out 



14 THE MAJOR. 



my course of life to be that of a military man. A 
hero, leader, conqueror of the soil, such must I be. 
Oh, harsh decree, from which my heart, my mind, 
my soul recoil. Guns were my toys. Pistols, 
swords and cannon forced upon me ; lulled to sleep 
by martial music ; wakened by the trumpet's call — 
Oh ! This, this for me, whose thoughts soar to 
those heights unknown to the common herd, where 
genius may mate with genius and exchange divine 
thoughts of harmony ! But I am restrained by the 
dire thought of poverty. My uncle's will, — poetic 
thought, horrible reality, — this deters me. A 
Major, I am rich ; a poet, I am a beggar. An 
envious cousin watches me ; detectives dog my foot- 
steps, seeking to catch me unawares. In secret 
only may I indulge in flights of fancy, brief moments 
of delight. Then must I don this hated garb, and 
be dissimulation's self. Ah, wealth, what a price 
I pay for thee, but without thee I cannot live. I 
have one hope, — to marry an heiress, and be re- 
leased from this bondage. She is my choice, and 
it is for this that I am here to-day, to place my life, 
my happiness in her hands, myself at her feet. Yes, 
I have decided. This day must be my day of fate. 
I will no longer let my coward heart shrink from 
its task as it has so often done. My knees shall 
not tremble when she is near me, and my tongue 
shall utter the words it has so often refused to speak. 

Voice in HOUSE {in a very loud tone.) — Stupid 
fool that I was ! Where have my eyes been? I see 
it plainly now. 



THE MAJOR. 15 



Major. — Her father! Can he suspect? Have I 
betrayed myself before him ? No, he has never 
seen me. And then he is a scholar. He knows 
nothing beyond his book. I am safe with him. 
Ha! Who is that coming up the road? A man 
and coming here! Now, Major, show thyself. 
Hm ! An oath, a military oath, to restore my war- 
like humor. Brrrr! Ten thousand devils! 
What's this! What's this ! Damme, sir! Ah, 
that has the true ring. Now I feel that I can face 
a man. (he stands near steps. Enter Dick whist- 
ling. He zualks to the steps without observing the 
Major.) 

Dick \ ^ Qnce f The devil ! That fool ! 
Major j 1 Zounds ! My rival ! 

(they draw apart and frown at each other.) 

Major. — Sir, sir ! What were you pleased to 
say? Well, well, sir ! I am waiting. 

Dick (turning cue ay). — Pshaw ! 

Major — Pshaw, sir! pshaw! Damme, sir, what 
do you mean by pshaw? Ten thousand imps of 
hades, sir! Do you take me for a cowardly civil- 
ian like yourself, sir? Do you know, sir, we sol- 
diers are accustomed to shoot men for less than 
pshaw? Pshaw, indeed! 

Dick (aside.) — I must keep my temper. I am 
not going to quarrel with this fellow. 

Major (aside.) — Have I overdone it? I must 
not go too for, or he may fight. Ha, no! He turns 
away. He is afraid. Then let me go for him. 



16 THE MAJOR. 



(aloud.) Well, sir, no answer? Damme, sir! Is 
this contempt yon put upon me, or is it the craven 
fear of a country lout ? (Dick walks to right. Ma- 
jor follows.) Ho! Not so fast, sir. You cannot 
escape me thus. If country boys will insult an 
officer they must take the consequences. 

Dick (aside.) — Why doesn't somebody come? 
I know my temper will get the better of me in a 
few moments, and I don't want to quarrel with 
him, here, at least. And I can't leave him either, 
or he would boast all over the place that he had 
frightened me away. 

Major (aside.) — Safe yet. He shows no sign 
of fight, (aloud.) What, silent yet, sir? Why, 
damme — but no, he is only a boy, and I must not 
take his silly speech in earnest, here of all places. 
Go, boy, the place protects you. 

Dick. — This is too much, (rushes forward and 
seises the Major by the collar.) You miserable, lit- 
tle imitation of a man! If you were worth the 
trouble I would cowhide you until the skin came 
off. Bah! (releasing him.) Getaway, and don't 
tempt me. 

Major (aside.) — I have escaped alive. I see 
that I have gone too far. Shall I apologize ? No, 
that would be my undoing. I must act injured in- 
nocence, (aloud, limping.) Young man, you 
have shaken me, crumpled my collar, shown me 
personal violence. But it is not the mere pain of 
the bruises that hurts me, for what are bruises to a 
veteran like myself? 



THE MAJOR. 17 



Dick (aside.) — What does the fool mean ? 

Major. — No, it is not that, for perhaps my sol- 
dier's temper, my brnsk manner, annoyed yon. It 
is the thought that in this place, the habitation of 
an angel, I am not secure from your violence, the 
violence of your jealousy. What would she say 
if she were to find out how you have abused me ? 

Dick. — Oh, say, come, now! Don't you think 
you are turning things around? I was under the 
impression that you were abusing me. How about 
the cowardly country boy, the country lout, the 
other little pet names I heard ? 

Major. — But violence — assault upon my per- 
son? W T hat would Miss Larrimar say to that? 

Dick (aside.) — She would never forgive me if 
she found out I had shaken up her pet Major. Con- 
found the fellow! I must pacify him somehow. 
(aloud.) See here, Major, I acknowledge that I 
let my temper get the better of me, and — and I re- 
gret having shaken you up the way I did. 

Major (aside.) — He weakens. {a load.) To 
take me by the collar and shake me like a dog. 
Ha! This is nice, indeed! 

Dick. — Come, come, Major, shake hands with 
me, and forget it all. 

Major. — Forget! Forget! With my neck al- 
most disjointed, my clothing all but torn to shreds! 
Ha! It is not so easy to forget. 



18 THE MAJOR. 



Dick. — Well, Major, I can't do any more than 
say I am sorry, and that I regret the whole matter. 
If you will not accept my apology, why — 

Major. — Apology! Ha! That puts another 
face upon the matter. An insult, an injury, de- 
mands satisfaction. Apologize, and I am dis- 
armed. Young man, your hand. (they shake 
hands. ) 

Dick. — Well, Major, now that this little matter 
is settled, it isn't necessary — ah, we needn't let 
everybody know — in short, there is no use telling 
anybody about it, is there ? 

Major {aside.) — I should think not! {aloud.) 
Since you ask it, my friend, I will consent to con- 
ceal it. Let the matter sink into oblivion and be 
forgotten. (they shake hands.) A foe turned 
friend, I would never offend. 

Dick. — Why, Major, you are quite a poet. 

Major (aside.) — Heavens! I am ruined! 
(aloud.) What I ! (he laughs spasmodically.) 
Ha! ha! (aside.) How am I to deceive him '( 
(aloud.) Ha, ha! That's a good joke! (aside.) 
My brain is in a whirl. I can't think of any way 
—ah! I have it! (aloud.) Ha, ha! A joke, in- 
deed! A rough soldier like myself, a poet! Ha! 
ha! That's good! Ha, ha! Why that was a quo- 
tation! Ha, ha! Shakespeare, you know. 

Dick. — No, was it? And I thought it was origi- 
nal! Ha, ha! (aside) Shakespeare, indeed! Shakes- 



THE MAJOR. 19 



peare never said such stuff as that, {enter Mrs. 
Larrimar and Alice on porch. ) 

Alice. — Why, Major, is that you? Where did 
you come from? And Dick, too! I didn't know 
you were acquainted with each other. {they come 
down steps.) 

Mrs. Larrimar. — How hot you are, Dick. You 
must sit down and cool yourself. 

Major. — Ah! Yes indeed, we are well acquaint- 
ed, I assure you. We — ah — {aside) What's his 
rame, anyway, {aloud.) Yes, we — ah — we have 
met before you know. 

Alice. — So I should suppose. Have you known 
each other long ? 

Major. — Oh, no, not long, you know. But we 
have been quite intimate since we met. 

Dick. — I must refer you to the Major for an 
answer to that question. He can tell you better 
than I can. 

Mrs. Larrimar. — Major, I was asking Dick 
what it was you and he were laughing about when 
we came out. {Major crosses to her and Dick to 
Alice.) It must have been very amusing, for we 
heard you up stairs and came down to see who it 
was. {Alice seats herself on garden seat. Dick 
talks to her from behind.) 

Major. — Amusing ! My dear Madam, it was the 
veriest essence of humor, the height of absurdity. 
Ha, ha ! I really cannot help laughing yet at the 



20 THE MAJOR. 



thought. Mr. — ah — our young friend here — ah — 
( pauses. ) 

Mrs. Larrimar. — Dick, you mean? 

Major {aside. ) — Confound it ! If she would only 
say his name. 

Mrs. Larrimar. — Do go on, Major. I am dying 
to hear the joke. 

Major. — Well, you see, I made a remark, a 
quotation from — ah — Milton, and our young friend 
here, ha, ha ! thought it was original. Ha, ha ! 

Mrs. Larrimar. — But, Major, I don't see any 
joke in that. I, too, have often thought you were 
a poet. 

Major {aside. ) — Can she suspect? [aloud.) My 
dear Madam ! I, a poet ! I, whose thoughts turn 
to the humdrum things of barrack life; to whose 
lips oaths are more familiar than poetry ! Ha, ha ! 
Now, really, my dear Madam ! You must pardon 
my laughing, but — (they walk apart.) 

Dick (bending over Alice). — Then what have I 
done that I am never to be alone with you, as we 
used to be before that infer — ahem! — the Major 
came? (twirls a flower iu his fingers. Alice takes 
it from him.) 

Alice. — I hate to see anyone destroy a flower. 
It seems so cruel. I don't see why you dislike the 
poor Major so. I am sure you seemed to be such 
friends when we came out. 



THE MAJOR. 21 



Dick. — Oh, I suppose we are good enough 
friends, as friends go, if you want us to be friends. 

Alice. — And then, he is such an interesting man, 
and such a brave soldier. I declare I feel quite 
wrought up sometimes after he has told me some 
of his recollections of the war. 

Dick. — Oh, I dare say. If one could only be- 
lieve all he says. 

Alice.— Now, there you go again! I declare, 
Dick, I shall be afraid to say a word to you for fear 
you will not believe me. 

Dick. — You know well enough, Alice, that I 
would believe anything you say, without a question. 

Alice. — That is trust, indeed. 

Dick. — Yes, it is trust. I would gladly trust 
you with my life. 

Alice. — Why, that is what the Major says. 

Dick. — Oh, confound the Major! 

Alice. — Dick! how can you use such language 
to me! I am ashamed of you. I will not talk to 
you any more until I see that you are good. Ma- 
jor, I forgot to ask you, did you find any of those 
shells you were telling me about? (Major crosses 
to her. ) 

.Mrs. Larrimar. — Is your father any better, 
Dick? I haven't seen him for some time. 

Dick. — Yes, he feels much better, to-day, though 
his old wound troubles him a good deal. He said 



22 THE MAJOR. 



he was coming over here to-day to see Mr. Larri- 
mar. He has made an addition to his collection, 
I believe, and wants to get yorr husband's opinion 
about it. 

Mrs. Larrimar. — Well, well. I have missed 
him very much since he has been sick. Ah, Dick, 
you should be very proud of that grand old man. 

Dick. — Proud of him! There is no one like him. 
Thank you, Mrs. Larrimar, for those kind words. 
Ah, no one knows my father as I do. He is not a 
great man, as men call greatness, nor a rich man, 
as men call riches; but he is an honest man, and 
that is the greatest of them all. 

{Airs. Larrimar goes up on porch and 
seats herself in rocking chair. Dick sits on steps. 
During the following, Dick, who has his back 
turned toward Alice, tries to watch her and keep 
up the conversation with Mrs. Larrimar.} 

Alice. — And did she really have the heart to say 
that to you, Major. 

Major. — She did, upon my honor, she did. I 
never was so thundersturck in my life. 

Alice. — What did you say? 

Major. — If I remember rightly, I said something- 
like this: "Madam, I have endeavored to do you a 
favor, but you have seen fit to scorn my services, 
to receive my offer with unseemly laughter. 
Madam, I am deeply wounded, cut to the heart." 
(he places his hand on his heart and sighs.) 



THE MAJOR. 23 



Dick {aside, observing the action.} — Confound it! 
He is proposing before my eyes. 

Alice. — And what did she say to that? 

Major. — She seemed conscious-stricken then, 
and wished me to shake hands with her in token 
of my forgiveness. I took her hand thus {takes 
Alices hand) and said: " Madam, I forgive you, I 
do so willingly. But I can never forget. Fare- 
well, believe me your well-wisher. " Then I kissed 
her hand, thus, (kisses Alice's hand.) 

Dick (aside, throwing dozen cushion violently 

and rising.) — That's more than I can stand. 

Mrs. Larrimar. — What, you are not going, are 
you, Dick? We expected you to stay to dinner. 

Dick. — Oh, I — I am so sorry, but you see — 

Alice. — Oh, Dick, those engravings came last 
evening; I want you to see them. Mother dear, 
do take Dick in and show them to him. (exit 
Mrs. Larrimar in house. Dick hesitates a mo- 
ment, then follows.) 

Major (aside.) — She has sent them away to be 
alone with me! Divine creature! She is mine, 
Now r let me be eloquent on the theme of love. 
{aloud.) Ah, Miss Larrimar, this is a day when 
one feels — one feels — feels very warm. 



Alice. — One does, indeed. But I am afraid you 
are standing in the sun. Do sit down here. 

Major. — No, no. Believe me, I am happy here. 
(aside.) This will not do. I must brace up and 



24 THE MAJOR. 



do better. If my knees would only behave them- 
selves, [aloud.) 'Tis — ah — 'tis from this spot I 
may gaze upon that damask cheek, those ruddy 
lips, that face so sweet, {aside.) Poetry! I must 
be careful. 

Alice. — It is so nice of you to make those pret- 
ty speeches, Major, but I am afraid you are only 
flattering me. 

Major. — Flatter you! No, believe me, that is 
impossible, (aside.) Now is my time, she is in a 
favorable mood. I will propose, [aloud.) Miss 
Larrimar, don't you think that when two young 
people are alone in a garden like this their thoughts 
naturally turn to the thought that — ah — that — hem 
— that it would be hot in the sun? (aside. ) Ah, 
pshaw! I can't do it. 

Alice (aside.) — He is going to propose. I must 
stop him. (aloud.) Indeed, Major, I haven't given 
the subject any consideration, so — 

Major. — But what I mean to say is that when 
we two are alone amidst such beautiful surround- 
ings, we are uplifted from the sordid cares of life, 
we feel that we must — ah — that — that we must ad- 
mire it. 

Alice. — Do you admire this place, Major? But 
you cannot see half of it from here. The prettiest 
part is hidden behind those trees. Let us go down 
there and I will show you. (*he rises and goes out 
right.) 



THE MAJOR. 25 

Major (aside, following her.) — My opportunity 
is lost. Oh! why can't I speak! I will do it yet! 
(goes out. ) (short pause. ) 

Voice in House (in very loud tone.) — Now, what 
has become of that memorandum? Harriet, have 
you seen it? 

[another pause, then enter Dick hastily from 
/to use.) 

Dick. — Thank Heavens! I got away at last. 
To be in there looking at those confounded engrav- 
ings, to have to say this one is good, that one is 
exquisite, and to know that all the time she was 
out here, with him hanging over her, making love 
to her, and she looking up into his eyes, and — oh ! 
hang it all! She has looked at me the same way, 
and I dare say dozens of other men, too. I suppose 
she means to marry this fellow. He is rich, and 
she believes he is all he says he is. Well, I sup- 
pose I am not rich enough for her. Girls like 
money. She has been making a fool of me all 
along. Well, she sha'n't have me for her slave any 
longer. I am done with her. (he starts to go. 
Enter Henry Dawson.) 

Mr. Dawson. — Why, Dick, old fellow, where 
are you going in such a hurry? What, my boy, in 
trouble? 

Dick. — Ah, father, I have you yet. You are 
worth all the girls in the world. 

Mr. Dawson. — Ah, so you and Alice have had a 
quarrel. 



THE MAJOR. 



Dick. — Quarrel ! No, but I never want to see 
her again. 

Mr. Dawson. — Tell me about it. What has 
she done? 

Dick. — Oh, she hasn't done anything in particu- 
lar. Only she is going to marry that fellow. 

Mr. Dawson. — Fellow! What fellow? 

Dick. — The Major. I don't know his name. 

Mr. Dawson. — Nonsense. 

Dick. — No, it's true. I saw it all a few moments 
ago. I saw him bending over her, and kissing her 
hand, and she — 

Mr. Dawson. — Well. And she — 

Dick. — Well, let him do it. 

Mr. Dawson. — Dick, Alice Larrimer is a girl in 
a thousand, true, lovable, everything a man would 
wish his wife to be. And Dick, she loves you. 
Don't let your jealousy mar both your lives. Oh, 
my son, I have seen just such quarrels end so very, 
very sadly ; when two lovers found out years after, 
when they were old and it was too late, that their 
lives had been embittered by a hasty word. A girl 
likes to tease the man she loves. She does not 
wish him to think that she is too easily won. She 
likes to show her power, and uses any foil to play 
with the man she really loves. Believe me, I have 
read Alice Iyarrimar rightly. She is not an angel; 
she is a woman, and she must use her power. But 
I have seen that she loves you in many things that 



THE MAJOR. 27 



would eseape your notice. Have you told her that 
you love her? 

Dick. — Not in so many words, exactly, but she 
must know — 

Mr. Lawson. — Aye, she knows. She knew it 
before you knew it yourself, or she is no woman. 
Take my advice. Don't leave to-day until she 
knows you know she knows. There, my boy, puz- 
zle that out, but don't go without me. [exit in 
house. ) 

Dick {seating himself on garden seat.) — She 
knows you know she knows. That sounds like a 
grammar lesson. I know, thou knowest, he, she 
or it knows. If anyone but the Pater had said it — 
but he meant something. He said " Not until she 
knows you know she knows. " She knows, you 
know, she knows. Oh, I told him that in the 
first place. It can't be that. She knows, you 
know she knows. Bosh! That's the same thing. 
Stop! I am going at this in the wrong way. What 
does she know? Why, that I love her. Well, she 
knows it. Then I know that she knows it. Then 
she is to know, that I know, that she knows it. 
Why, he means that I am to tell her! [enter Alice 
behind him.) What's the use? He has proposed to 
her by this time, and has no doubt been accepted. 
Hang it all! I'll do it any way. Anything is 
better than this suspense. (Alice leans over the 
back of the scat and watches him. Dick turns and 
sees her.) 



28 THE MAJOR. 



Dick. — Where did you come from? How long 
have you been there? 

Alice. — Down the road. About two minutes. 

Dick. — Where did you leave your Major? 

Alice. — No place. 

Dick. — Oh, say, come now. He must be some 
place, you know. 

Alice. — I didn't leave him. He left me. 

Dick. — You expect me to believe that, do you? 

Alice. — He did, though. He went to' get a 
bunch of flowers, and I got tired waiting for him. 

Dick. — You must have had a pleasant walk. 

Alice. — I did, very. The Major can be so en- 
tertaining. 

Dick. — Oh, I dare say. What did you talk 
about? 

Alice. — Oh, lots of things. About his life in 
the barracks, his experience in action, how he liked 
being here, and — oh, many other things. 

Dick. — Do you mean to tell me that he wasn't 
making love to you? 

Alice. — Well, he did say some very pretty things 
about me. Shall I tell you some of them? I 
know you will think them nice, too. 

Dick. — Umph! Let's hear them. 

Alice. — Well, he said that this place was a lit- 
tle paradise, and that I was its queen. 



THE MAJOR. 29 



Dick. — Ha, ha! And he is the little serpent. 

Alice. — No, he didn't say that. And, Dick, 
yon mustn't laugh like that. It's rude. 

Dick. — I take the laugh back. Go on, what 
else did he say'.'' I want to hear something nice. 

Alice. — He said my eyes are as bright as stars. 
I am sure that is nice. 

Dick. — I have told you that dozens of times. 
Did you think it nice when I said it? 

Alice. — Very nice. But you never told me they 
were mirrors of intelligence and love. He did. 

Dick.— Well, even if I didn't, that's— 

Alice. — And that my hand was a thing of 
beauty, and my foot a dream. 

Dick. — Confound his impertinence! What right 
has he to know you have a foot? 

Alice. — Of course he knows I have a foot. He 
could see me walking, couldn't he? And then 
when he helped me over the stile — 

Dick. — What! Do you mean to tell me he had 
the audacity to lift you down from that stile? 

Alice. — Certainly. Do you think that he would 
have stood there and leave me perched up there 
helpless? 

Dick. — Oh, all right. Only I'd like to see him 
do it, that's all. See here, Alice, are you going 
to marry him? 



30 THE MAJOR. 



Alice. — What a question! 

Dick. — Oh, I dare say he is rich and all that, 
and that it is none of my business. But I want to 
hear you say so. Are you going to marry him? 

Alice. — He hasn't asked me yet. 

Dick. — But he is going to. Are you going to 
accept him? 

Alice. — Do you think I had better? 

Dick. — No, I have a much better plan than that. 
Marry me. Oh, Alice, I know I haven't much to 
offer you. I am poor compared with what he has, 
or your father's wealth, and I am not worthy of 
you. But I love you, Alice. I have loved you all 
my life, ever since we were boy and girl together. 
I think — I know if you could love me just a little, 
I could make you happy. {he takes her hand.) 
Can't you love me, Alice? {enter Major ivith a 
bunch offlozvers.) 

Major. — Ah, Miss Laminar, here you are. 
{Dick zvalks azcay, szvearing to himself.) 

Major {aside.) — Aha! Can it be possible? I 
have my suspicions that I arrived just in the nick 
of time to prevent a catastrophy. {aloud.) Ah, 
Miss Larrimar, it was a stiff climb I had for these 
little beauties, and when I did get them my coat 
caught on a branch of a tree. So it took me longer 
than I thought it would. But I can now lay the 
fruits of my labor at your feet. 



THE MAJOR. 31 



Dick (aside, sneeringly.) — Her dreams, you 
mean. 

Major {aside.) — Why doesn't he go? I can't 
talk to her while he is there, (aloud, tenderly, as 
Alice lays flowers carelessly on the seat.) Does not 
my unworthy offering find favor at your hands? 

Dick (aside. ) — Things of beauty, man ! You for- 
get. 

Alice {aside.) — Poor man, he did work so hard 
to get them, and took such trouble to please me. 
I must appreciate them, (aloud.) They are beau- 
tiful, Major, and it was so kind of you to get them 
for me. Now if I only had something to put them 
in — Oh! There is a little vase on the table in the 
library that is just the thing. If I only had that. 

Major (aside. ) — The way to get rid of him ! And 
she has planned it! (aloud.) As Mr. — ah— Dick 
knows the house so much better than I do, perhaps 
he would — eh? 

Dick (aside.) — Get something to put his flowers 
in? I 1 11 just see myself ! 

Alice. — Oh, Dick, will you? That would be so 
kind of you. (Dick matters something and runs 
into the house.) 

Major (aside.) — Now is my time, {aloud.) Ah, 
Miss Larrimar, if you would only bestow one of 
those sweet caresses you lavish so freely on those 
senseless flowers on the unhappy giver, you would 
raise him to the highest heaven, (he kneels. ) 



32 THE MAJOR. 



{Dick enters quickly, with vase.) 

Dick. — Is this it? 

Major {aside, pretending to pick up something.) 
Confound him. He must have wings. 

Alice. — Oh! have you dropped something, Ma- 
jor? 

Major. — Ah, just my ring. I have found it. 

Alice. — It would have been such a pity — Oh, 
thank you, Dick. {taking vase and arranging 
flowers.) It was so kind of you to get it for me. 

Dick. — There was nothing kind about it. {aside 
to Alice.) Alice, have pity on me. Send — 

Alice. — Oh! how stupid of me! There is no 
water in it, and now they will all have to come 
out again. 

Dick. — Perhaps as the Major has just seen the 
old well, he will run down and fill it. 

Alice. — Why, Dick, that is half a mile away! 
You wouldn't have the Major go all the way down 
there when he can fill it at the duck-pond just 
around the stable. 

Dick {taking vase from Alice and forcing it into 
the Major'' s hand.) — Yes, that's so. Just follow 
that path and you will find it. 

Major. — Miss Laminar' s wishes must be obeyed. 
[he runs out right.) 

Alice. — But, Dick, the stable is over there! 
{pointing left.) 



THE MAJOR. 33 



Dick.— Yes, I know. That's all right. That 
walk will take him there — in the course of half an 
hour. Oh, Alice! How can I thank you for send- 
ing him away, if only for a moment? 

Alice. — I didn't know you cared so much for — 
for flowers. It would be a pity to let them die, 
wouldn't it? 

Dick. — Oh, hang the flowers, so long as I can 
have you to myself. Oh, Alice, if you would only 
give me the right to send that fool about his busi- 
ness, instead of loafing around here. Alice, won't 
you give me an answer to my question? (he takes 
her Jicind. Back to right. ) 

i\ucE. — Do be careful, Dick. The Major may 
by back any moment, and he will see you. 

Dick. — He is good for some time yet, and any- 
how I don't care if he sees or not. He can see 
that, if he wants to, and that, and that, (kisses 
her hand each time.) I love you, I love you, 
and — 

Major {running in splashed with water.) — Here 
is the water, Miss Larrimar. {Dick makes a motion 
as if choking some one. ) 

Alice. — Oh, Major! You are all wet! How did 
it happen? I am so sorry you have had all this 
trouble for me. 

Major. — It is nothing, I assure you. In hasten- 
ing to do your bidding, though I saw no stable, 



34 THE MAJOR. 



no duck-pond, I found a pump. I am not used 
to pumps, hence this wetting. 

Dick (aside.) — Hang the pump! I forgot it. 

Major (aside.) — Ha, ha! I have outwitted him! 
He purposely misled me. My blessings on that 
pump ! 

Alice. — There! Isn't that beautiful? Now, if 
some one would only carry it into the house for me 
— (Dick and the Major both rush to get it. Dick 
gets the flowers and the Major gets the vase.) 

Alice. — Oh! See what you have done! All 
my work for nothing ! (enter Mrs. Larrimar and 
Henry Dawson on porch. Alice meets then/ at the 
foot of steps and kisses the latter. ) 

Mr. Dawson. — How are you to-day, my dear? 
It's a pleasure to see your sweet face again. 

Alice. — Then you are very self-denying not to 
take that pleasure for so long a time. If you had 
not come here to-day I would have taken my face 
down to see you. 

Mr. Dawson. — And you would have brightened 
up our lonely house wonderfully, my dear, as you 
always do. Ah, your house owns the presence of 
two sweet women. Ours has none at all. 

Mrs. Larrimar. — Henry, let me make you ac- 
quainted with Major Saul Bowendale. Major Bow- 
endale, Mr. Dawson, or I should say Colonel Daw- 
son. I always forget that you are a Colonel, 



THE MAJOR. 35 



Henry. You never use the title, (the Major offers 
to shake ha nets.) 

Mr. Dawson. — Yes, Kate, I never use it. I 
fought for my countty, not my title. The war be- 
ing over, I forget my title, {to the Major.) Sir, 
by what right you hold that honorable title, I do 
not presume to say. But your offer of the hand- 
shake of acquaintanceship I decline. 

Mrs. Larrimer — f Henry ! ! 

i 
Alice {at once.) — { Mr. Dawson ! ! 

Dick.— iFather!! 

Mr. Dawson. — Yes, my friends, I must decline. 

Major {flourishing vase.) — Sir, if this is an in- 
sult— 

Mr. Dawson. — Without intending any insult, 
I must decline taking your hand. 

Major. — Then, sir, my honor demands that I 
should have satisfaction. Will you — 

Mr. Dawson. — I will give your honor my rea- 
sons for declining to take your hand, and satisfac- 
tion at the same time. I shake hands with no cow- 
ard. Stay, one moment. Alice, my dear, come 
here, {he takes her hand.) I have not often im- 
posed my experiences in the war upon you, but I 
am going to tell you one now. Listen then, while 
I tell you why I cannot take this man's hand. On 
the night before the battle in which I left this arm, 
I was called to the bedside of a dying man. He 
had been wounded the day before in a skirmish 



36 THE MAJOR. 



with the enemy, and his wound proved mortal. 
Why he called on me I cannot say {Alice kisses his 
hand), bnt I have closed many eyes in death, {he 
pauses and sighs. ) He was dying when I arrived. 
There was no hope, bnt he wished to send his fare- 
well message to his wife and child. He told me 
his story as his life was ebbing away. He was not 
a regular soldier, nor was he a volunteer. He was 
a substitute. He had sold his life to buy five hun- 
dred dollars' worth of miserable existence for his 
wife and child. He took the chances, bnt the odds 
were against him, and he was dying. He was, as 
I have said, wounded in a skirmish, but it was 
through the cowardice of one of his comrades at 
arms. This comrade, to save himself, pushed him 
to an exposed position. He died at sunrise, this 
William Barton, but not before he told me the 
name of the man who killed him. Shall I say the 
name? 

Major. — No, I am he. 

Mr. Dawson. — I do not wish to prejudice others 
against you. Men think differently about these 
things, but I cannot change my nature. 

{Dick and Alice zvalk to right. ) 

Major. — Sir, I honor your feelings, but you can- 
not understand mine. I entered upon my military 
career involuntarily and upon compulsion. My 
guardian was determined that I should be a soldier, 
and I am a coward. He resolved that I should be 
confined to the narrow limits of barrack life, and I 



THE MAJOR. 



am a poet. He made a will, leaving me his money 
on condition that I should be a soldier and not a 
poet. I was watched, hunted by an envious cousin, 
who claimed my fortune, so I was compelled to en- 
list, but I could not change my nature. Miss Lar- 
rimar, do not let yourself be influenced by the 
opinions of others. I feel that I am a genius. If 
I dared but let my soul breathe its natural atmos- 
phere I know that 1 could grasp the laurel crown. 
Will you help me gain it and wear it with me? 

Dick. — Miss Larriinar deputizes me to be her 
substitute in this one case, and then receive mv 
discharge. She declines your offer of a laurel 
crown, and is content to wear one of country flow- 
ers that I shall weave for her, for she has promised 
to be mv wife. 



Major {clasping vase to his heart. )- 

Cease heart, hark to thy knell ; 
It rings for thee — hope farewell. 



Finis. 



Colonel Chabert, 



A DRAMA 



BY 



G. I. HOLDSHIP. 



-^ypX 1 



Dramatized from tlie French of 



BALZAC. 



Copyright 1892, 

BY 
G. I. HOLDSHIP. 



Colonel Chabert. 



CHARACTERS. 

Colonel Chabert. 
DERVILLE, solicitor. 
Boucard, head clerk, 
Godeschal, clerk. 
Delbecq, secretary. 

Clerks and paupers. 

Countess Ferraud. 
Julie, her maid. 



SCENE — Paris and environs. 

Time — Acts I. to IV. inclusive, 1815. Epilogue, 1830 



Colonel Chabert 



Act First. 

Study in Derville's house. Time, 1 o'clock in the morning. 

Boucard and Godeschal. They work in silence for some 
time after the rise of the curtain, Boucard arranging docu- 
ments at the table, Godeschal filing papers in the cabinet from 
a basket. 

Boucard. — Why did you put this memorandum 
in the case of Bodin here? It should not be separ- 
ated from the brief. Besides, the case does not 
come up until next week. 

Godeschal {crossing over.) — It was that block- 
head Hure. I gave it to him to file this morning 
after the master had finished. These provincials 
never listen when one talks to them. 

Boucard. — Put it in its proper place and repri- 
mand Hure in the morning. Never let an error 
pass unnoticed. {silence for some moments, each 
at his work. Boucard trims lamp and glances at 
clock.) 

Boucard. — Ten minutes to one! Have you 
nearly finished? The master will be here in a few 
moments. 

Godeschal. — Almost. Where is he to-night? 



44 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I. 



Boucard. — Here is the list of engagements. 
{reading.) "Dine with the Count de Mauris; 
opera, box of Count Ferraud ; the Duchess de Lan- 
geais' ball. Will return at one." 

Godeschal. — Count Ferraud ! Our client? 

Boucard. — No, his wife. Decision of Cour d' 
appel of Nancy, department Ardennes, case of Et- 
tienne. File in E. Handsome woman, the Count- 
ess. Have you ever seen her? 

Godeschal. — No. Is she young? 

Boucard. — Um. Age uncertain, but young 
looking. Very fascinating though. Count Ferraud 
is her second husband. She was the widow of an 
officer of the Empire. {the clock strikes one. 
Godeschal leaves cabinet yawning. ) 

Godeschal. — There ! That's done ! I feel 
sleepy. 

Boucard. — Was the petition Restaud finished 
to-day? 

Godeschal. — Yes, and sent off this afternoon. 
(Boucard makes a mark on document.) 

Boucard. — Sleepy! You young men are always 
sleepy. I have three hours' work yet before me. 
{enter Derville briskly in evening dress.) 

DERVILLE. — Have you finished, Godeschal? 

Godeschal. — Just this moment, sir. 

Derville. — Then I would advise you to go to 
bed at once. You young men need your full quan- 



ACT I. COLONEL CHABERT. 45 



tity of sleep. Take my cloak and hat. (Godeschal 
goes out. Derville sits at tabic. ) Now, Boucard, 
to work. 

Boucard. — Case of Countess Ferraud. {plac- 
ing documents on table. ) Pleadings in primary 
court; your instructions; decision of primary court; 
process in cour d' appel; decision of cour d' appel. 

Derville. — We take this case before the court 
of cassation. Give me the memorandum of our 
appeal. 

{enter Colonel CJiabert at back, noiselessly 
and unobserved. He stands motionless for some 
moments, waiting for Derville to finish.) 

Boucard (reaching for another document and 
observing Chabert.) — Great heavens! (to Derville) 
I beg your pardon, sir. The gentleman startled 
me. 

(Derville looks up quickly, moving the lamp shade 
so as to throw the light on Colonel Chaberf s face. ) 

Derville. — To whom have I the honor of 
speaking? 

[Colonel CJiabert steps forward, raising his hat. 
in so doing he moves aside his zcig, disclosing a 
large scar.) 

Colonel Chabert. — To Colonel Chabert, mon- 
sieur. 

Derville. —Colonel Chabert ! Cha — Which 
one? 



46 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I. . 

Colonel Chabert. — The one that was killed at 
Eylau. 

Derville. — What is it you wish with me? 

Colonel Chabert. — A few moments private 
conversation, monsieur. 

[Derville mot ions Boucard to go. The latter taps 
his forehead warning ly. Derville shrugs his 
shoulders. Boucard goes out.) 

Derville. — Now, sir, I am ready to hear what 
you have to say. Be as brief and concise as possi- 
ble. During the day I do not begrudge my time, 
but at this hour of the night every moment is 
precious. Therefore, state your case without di- 
gression or delay. I will ask for any explanations 
I may find necessary. Pray be seated, (he sits 
down and carelessly turns over the leaves of a brief) 

Colonel Chabert. — Monsieur, you have prob- 
ably heard my name and know that I commanded 
a regiment at Eylau, where I was the chief cause 
of the success of Murat's famous charge. The 
particulars of the battle are given in "Victories 
and Conquests," and where also my death is stated 
as an historic fact. We cut the three Russian lines 
in two; then they closed behind us and we had to 
cut our way back again. In returning toward the 
Emperor, having dispersed the Russians, a troop of 
the enemy's cavalry met us. I flung myself upon 
them. Two Russian officers, actual giants, at- 
tacked me at one time. One of them struck me 
with his sabre on the head, cutting through every- 



Act I. COLONEL CHABERT. 47 



thing, even to the silk cap I wore, and pierced my 
skull. I fell from my horse. Murat came up to 
support us, and he and his whole party, fifteen 
hundred men, rode over me. They reported my 
death to the Emperor, who sent, — for he loved me 
a little, the Master — sent to see if there was any 
hope of saving the man to whom he owed the vigor 
of our attack. He dispatched tw r o surgeons to find 
me and carry me to the ambulance, saying hurriedly, 
perhaps, for he had work to do — u Go and see if 
my poor Chabert is living." These cursed saw- 
bones had just seen me trampled under the hoofs 
of two regiments; no doubt they never took the 
trouble to feel my pulse, but reported me dead. 
The certificate of my death was doubtless drawn 
up in due form, according to military law. 

Derville (who, during tJie recital, had become 
more attentive, and had pushed away his papers.) 
— Do you know, sir, that I am the solicitor of the 
Countess Ferraud, widow of Colonel Chabert? 

Colonel Chabert. — Of my wife? Yes, mon- 
sieur. It is for that reason that, after many fruit- 
less efforts to obtain a hearing from other lawyers, 
I determined to come to you. Let me first state my 
facts and relate to you how they probably hap- 
pened. Certain circumstances, known to God Al- 
mighty alone, oblige me to relate much in the form 
of hypotheses. For instance, the wounds I re- 
ceived probably produced something like lockjaw, 
or threw me into a state similar to a disease called, 
I believe, catalepsy. Otherwise, how can I sup- 



48 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I 

pose it happened that I was stripped of my cloth- 
ing and thrown into the common trench, according 
to the customs of war, by the men whose business 
it is to bury the dead? Here let me state a cir- 
cumstance I did not know until much later 
than the event I am forced to call my 
death. In 1812 I met, in Stutgart, an old 
cavalry sergeant of my regiment. That dear 
man, the only human being willing to recog- 
nize me, explained to me the extraordinary circum- 
stances of my preservation. He said that my horse 
received a bullet the same moment that I myself 
was wounded. Both horse and rider were therefore 
knocked over like a stand of muskets. In falling, 
either to the right or left, I had doubtless been pro- 
tected by the body of my horse, which saved me 
from being crushed to death by the cavalry, or hit 
by bullets, (he pauses for a few moments.} When 
I came to myself, monsieur, I was in a place and in 
an atmosphere of which I could give yon no idea 
if I talked all night. The little air I had to breathe 
was mephetic. I wished to move, but found no 
space. Opening my eyes, I saw nothing. The 
want of air was the worst sign, and that disclosed 
to me my true position. I saw T that where I 
was the air was stagnant, and that I should die. 
This thought overcame the sense of extreme pain 
that had brought me to myself. My ears hummed 
violently. I heard, or thought I heard, I do not 
wish to affirm anything positively, groans from the 
heaps of dead amongst which I lay. Ah! such 
groans! Though the recollection of those moments 



Act I. COLONEL CHABERT. 49 



is dark, though my memory is often confused, in 
spite of the effect of greater sufferings later which 
have bewildered my ideas, there are nights when I 
think I still near those smothered moans. But 
there was something more horrible to me than those 
cries: Silence — a silence I have never felt since — 
the silence of the grave. It was awful. At last, 
raising my hands and feeling among the dead, I 
found a void between my head and the human car- 
rion above me. I could measure with my arm the 
space that had been left me by some chance. It ap- 
peared, thanks to the carelessness or haste of those 
who had thrown us in pell-mell, as if two bodies 
had fallen against each other above me, so as to 
form an angle, like that of the two cards two chil- 
dren put together to build houses. Feeling rapidly 
about, for I could waste no time, I came across a 
detached arm, the arm of a Hercules, and to that 
good bone I owe my preservation. Without that 
unhoped-for aid, I should have perished. But 
then, with an energy you can well conceive, I be- 
gan to burrow upwards through the bodies that 
separated me from the layer of earth that had 
doubtless been thrown over us; I say c 'us ,, as if 
there had been others living! I worked vigorously, 
since I am here. But I do not know yet how I was 
able to pierce that covering of flesh that interposed 
a barrier between life and me. You may say that 
I had three arms. That lever, which I used skill- 
fully, brought me a little air confined among the 
bodies it aided me to displace, and I economized 
my breathing. At last I saw daylight, but through 



50 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I. 



the snow, monsieur! Then for the first time I no- 
ticed that I was wounded. Luckily my blood, or 
perhaps that of my comrades or the bleeding flesh 
of my horse — how can I tell ? — had coagulated and 
formed a natural plaster. Notwithstanding this 
scab, I fainted when my head came in contact with 
the snow. Then, the little heat left in my body 
having melted the snow around me, I found my 
head, when I regained consciousness, in the centre 
of a small opening through which I shouted as 
long as I was able. But the sun was just rising 
and I had little chance of being heard. Had the 
people already gone to the fields? I raised myself 
by a spring from the dead whose thighs were solid 
— it was not the time to say, " Honor to dead he- 
ros. " In short, monsieur, after going through the 
anguish, if that word can describe my feelings, of 
seeing those accursed Germans — oh, heavens! what 
an eternity it seemed! — of seeing them run away 
when they heard a voice and could see no one. 
I was at last taken out by a woman daring- 
enough or curious enough to creep up to my head, 
which seemed to sprout from the ground like a 
mushroom. This woman fetched her husband, and 
together they carried me to their poor hovel. It 
seems that I had a return of catalepsy — let me use 
that term to describe a state of which I have no 
idea, but judging from what my host told me must 
have been an effect of that disease. I remained 
there six months, hovering between life and death, 
speechless at times, delirious at others. Finally 
they took me to the hospital at Heilsburg. (he 



Act I. COLONEL CHABERT. 51 

pauses for a moment, passing his hand over his 
forehead.) One day, six months later, having re- 
covered my memory, I told my nurses who I was, 
that I was Colonel Chabert; the}' laughed at me. 
But I do not blame them, for who could recognize 
a colonel of the Empire in the naked being taken 
from a trench? Happily for me, the surgeon had 
made it a point of medical vanity to cure me, and 
he was naturally interested in me. When I spoke 
to him of my former life in a rational manner, that 
good man — his name was Sprachmann, monsieur, 
— had the evidence of my benefactress recorded in 
the legal forms of the country, together with his 
own, as to the nature and position of my wounds, 
and an exact description of my person. 

DervillE (interrupting quickly. ) — Papers ! Wise 
man! Their value is immeasurable to you. You 
have them here? 

Colonel Chabert. — Alas, Monsieur, I do not 
possess a single one. Ever since the day I was 
hurried from the town by the events of the war, I 
have wandered like a vagabond, begging my bread, 
taken for an idiot when I told my story, unable to 
earn a sou to help me get those papers which alone 
can prove the truth of what I say and reinstate me in 
my position. Often my sufferings kept me in some 
small village for weeks and weeks, where all showed 
kindness to the sick Frenchman, but they laughed 
in the face of that same Frenchman when he pre- 
tended to be Colonel Chabert. For a long time 
these doubts, this laughter, threw me into a fury, 



COLONEL CHABERT. Act I. 



and that prejudiced people against me. Once I 
was shut up as a lunatic at Stutgart. You can see 
from what I have told you that there was truly 
cause to lock hie tip. After being detained there 
two years; after hearing a thousand times my keep- 
ers explain "This is a poor man who thinks him- 
self Colonel Chabert" to visitors, who replied "Ah, 
poor man," I gave up, and even became convinced 
myself of the impossibility of my tale. I became 
sad and resigned, and tranquil, and ceased to claim 
Colonel Chabert as my name, so that I might be 
released and see France once again. Ah, Monsieur, 
to see France! That was my dream. I — [he 
pauses abruptly. ) One fine day, a spring- day, they 
gave me ten thalers and released me, on the ground 
that I spoke rationally on all subjects and called 
myself Colonel Chabert no longer. Ah, my God! 
How I did hate that name ! Even now, at inter- 
vals, it disgusts me. I would like — would like — 
not to be myself. The sense of my wrongs kills 
me. If my illness had only taken from me all 
memory of my past self, I might be vet happy. I 
could then have re-entered the ranks under another 
name, and, who knows, I might have ended as field 
marshal in Austria or Russia. 

DERVILLE. — You have upset all my ideas. I 
fancy that I dream in listening to you. Let us 
pause for a few moments, I beg of you. 

Colonel Chabert. — You are the only person 
who has ever listened to me patiently. I have told 
no lawyer as much as I have told you, since they 



Act I. COLONEL CHABERT. 53 



would not hear me, nor would they lend me ten 
napoleons so that I could send to Germany for the 
papers necessary for my suit. 

DervillE.— Suit ! What suit ? 

Colonel Chabert. — The Countess Ferraud is 
still ni}' wife, is she not? Her income of eighty 
thousand francs is mine. I gave it to her, yet she 
refuses me one penny of it. I want my property. 
That is my suit. When I, a beggar, propose to 
lawyers to sue a Count and Countess, I, rising un- 
reasonable from the dead, denying even the proofs 
of my death, they laugh at me, refuse to listen to 
me. Once I was buried beneath the dead, now I 
am buried beneath the living, beneath records, be- 
neath facts, beneath society itself, which seeks to 
thrust me back into my trench. 

DERVILLE. — Then let me be the bone to dig you 
out this time. 

Colonel Chabert. — Let you be! Let you! 
Ah, that is the first polite word I heard since — 
(he weeps.) 

DERVILLE (faking a roll of money from his 
pocket. )— Listen to me. Here are three hundred francs 
I won at cards to-night. Surely I can afford to give 
half that amount to save a fellow creature. I shall 
investigate and take steps to obtain your papers, 
and until their arrival I will — will advance you five 
francs a day. If you are Colonel Chabert you will 
forgive the smallness of the amount. I am a young 
man who has his fortune vet to make. Continue. 



54 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I- 



Colonel Chabert. — Where was I? 



Derville. — At Stutgart. Thev had set you 



'& 



free. 



Colonel Chabert {after a short pause.} — You 
know my wife ? {Derville nods. ) How — what is 
she like now ? 

DERVILLE. — Always charming. {Colonel Chab- 
ert s head Jails on his arm. Pause.) 

Colonel Chabert {resuming with more cheer- 
fulness.) — Monsieur, if I had been a handsome man 
I should not have been where I am. Women be- 
lieve a good looking man when they interlard their 
sentences with flattery. How could I make a 
woman listen to me, with a face like mine, clothed 
like this, mutilated, an arm wanting? I am more 
like an Esquimau than a Frenchman, I, Colonel 
Chabert, Count of the Empire, the handsomest man 
of his time! Or if I had had relatives of my own 
this would not have happened. But I was a found- 
, ling, a soldier whose only patrimony was his courage, 
the world his family, France his country, God his 
only protector — no, I am wrong. I had a father, the 
Emperor. Ah ! If he were only still amongst us ! 
(pause.) I wrote a long and detailed letter to my 
wife, but received no reply. Then I set out for 
Paris. Ah, Monsieur, there would be no end to 
my tale if I were to relate all the sufferings and 
misfortunes of that journey. Suffice it to say that 
at last I reached Paris, penniless, hungry, my 
clothes literally in shreds. That same night I was 



ACT I. COLONEL CHABERT. 



forced to bivouac in the woods of Clave. The 
chilliness of the night gave me some sort of an ill- 
ness, I do not know what it was, that seized me 
as I was crossing the faubourg St. Martin. When 
I came to my senses I was in a bed in the Hotel 
Dieu. There I remained for a month, almost 
happy. Then I was discharged, penniless, but 
cured, and on the pavements of Paris ! With what 
jov and speed I made my way to the rue du Mont 
Blanc, where, as I supposed, my wife was living in 
my house. Bah! the rue du Mont Blanc had be- 
come the rue de la Chaussee-d' Antin, my house 
sold, torn down, houses built by speculators in my 
gardens. Not knowing that my wife had married 
Count Ferraud, I could obtain no information about 
her. Finally I went to my old lawyer, but I found 
that he was dead and his office had passed into the 
hands of a younger man. The latter informed me, 
to my great astonishment, of the settlement of my 
estate, the marriage of my wife, and the birth of 
her two children. Then, Monsieur, knowing 
where my wife lived, I made my way to the house. 
Ah, I was not admitted when I gave an assumed 
name, but the day I gave my own I was thrown 
out. I have stood there night after night to see 
her returning from some ball or the theatre, to see 
the woman who is mine, yet who denies me. From 
that day I have lived for vengeance. She knows I 
am living. She has received four letters from me, 
one since my return to Paris. She loves me no 
longer, and I — I do not know if I love her or hate 



56 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I 



her. Sometimes I think I love her yet, and some- 
times I curse her. 

Derville. — This is a serious matter. Even if 
we admit the authenticity of the papers at Heils- 
burg, I am not sure that we can succeed, certainly 
not at once. The case is so exceptional. 

Colonel Chabert. — Oh, if I fail, I can die — 
but not alone. 

DERVILLE {pushing paper before Colonel Chab- 
ert.) — Write me here an exact description of the 
papers, and give the precise name of the town, 
country and the person in whose hands they were 
left. {Colonel Chabert writes. When he lias fin- 
ished.} Now, you will, I hope, follow my counsel. 
Your case shall be mine, and you will soon see, I 
hope, the interest I take in your situation, which is 
almost without precedent in legal annals. I shall 
make every effort possible, and if we are forced to 
compromise — 

Colonel Chabert. — Compromise ! Compro- 
mise ! Am I living or am I dead ? 

End of Act I. 



Act II. COLONEL CHABERT. 



Act Second. 

Boudoir of Countess Ferraud. 

{enter Julie with letter in her hand.) 

Julie. — Great heavens! what shall I do ? Ma- 
dame will never forgive — in my pocket for four 
days — no excuse to offer! (she throws it on the ta- 
ble, wringing her hands.} Fiend! Monster! (shak- 
ing her fist at it.) To get me in such a fix! I 
shall be discharged, sent off without a character 
{weeping.) I wonder who it is from? (takes up 
tetter and examines address.) What ! Another ! 
Like the others that put Madame in such a rage ! 
This makes the fourth. So much the worse for 
you, my dear, her rage will fall on you. My, 
wouldn't I just like to know what's in it ! How 
Madame did rage when the first one came! 

Countess (outside.) — Remove those flowers, Al- 
phonse. 

Julie. — Heavens ! Madame ! (she siezes letter 
and silver tray, and meets Conn less at the door.) 
[enter Countess.) 

Countess. — Well ? 

Julie. — Madame, pardon — I — a letter — 

Countess. — So I see. What then? You are 
not usually so embarassed when handing me a let- 
ter. 

Julie. — It is that I have to crave pardon of Ma- 
dame la Comtesse for my negligence in forgetting 
to deliver this before. 



58 COLONEL CHABERT. Act II. 

COUNTESS {taking letter and starting.) — Girl, 
how long have you had this? Ah! {running to- 
wards tig Jit and examining seat.) Have you 
opened this? 

Julie. — Madame! No, Madame. 

CounTESS (seizing her by the arm. ) — Look at 
me girl. Are you sure ? 

Julie. — Yes, Madame. By my faith I have not. 

Countess {releasing her.) — It is well for you. 
Go. 

Julie. — I hope Madame will pardon — 

Countess. — Go. Go. 

(Julie goes out. ) 

Countess. — Another! Am I never to escape 
this nightmare? He dogs my footsteps night and 
day. If I go to a ball, to the opera, he is there to 
watch me drive away, his eyes burning into mine, 
but from love or hate I do not know, cannot tell. 
Love! What cause have we to love each other? I 
hate him and I fear him. Yet what can he prove? 
Legally he is dead. I made sure of that before I 
married again. He can do nothing, (she paces u*> 
and down.) Pshaw! Why deceive myself! He 
can ruin me, ruin me, not by law, but through 
Count Ferraud. Yes, it is true. I have lately 
been forced to realize it. Though he loves me, yet 
I am not of use to him. I brought him money, 
but not influence, and it is influence that he 
needs. If he had married in the family of a peer 



Act II. COLONEL CHABERT. 59 



of France, he would have had family influence, the 
onlv power with the King. His ancient name, 
combined with — No, I cannot contend against 
Chabert, proofless though he is. Yet I will not 
resign the position I have gained. Chabert must 
remain dead, legally if not — if not— Could it be done? 
A body in the river, the morgue — why not? I have 
done worse before. No, I dare not risk it. I can 
have no confidants. I must work alone. But how, 
how ? Can I influence him to efface himself, not 
to claim his proper position ? Yes, if he loves 
me. Loves me! He has more cause to hate me 
than I him. Yet it is Chabert. Another, im- 
possible, Chabert — I must find out, I must see if 
— Ah, his letter. (she hastily tears it open and 
reads.) Ah, the same old story, [pause.) Yes, I 
saw you. (pause.) If you had only done it! On 
the edge and no one there to push you over, (pause.) 
Pity! I! I have none, (pause.) Pshaw! this tells 
me nothing. It is the same as the others. Money, 
money, pity, pity. It is always the same. I must 
see him. I can then tell what chances are against 
me. But he cannot come here. The servants are 
curious; that girl suspects something. Where then? 

(enter Julie, and later Derville.) 

Julie. — Monsieur Derville desires to speak with 
Madame. 

Countess. — Admit him. I will see him here. 
(Julie goes out.) Could I make use of him ? No, 
he is too keen. He would discover too much. 



60 COLOOEL CHARKRT. Act II. 



Well, he will distract my mind, even if it is only 
about that tiresome suit. 

Julie. — Monsieur Derville. 

Countess. — Ah, good morning, lawyer. Leave 
us, Julie. {Julie goes out. ) Have you come to 
talk to me about my suit ? 

Derville. — No, Madame. I have come to talk 
on a more serious subject. 

Countess — Oh, I am so sorry the Count is ab- 
sent. 

DERVILLE. — And I am glad, Madame, for he 
would be out of place here just now. Besides, 
Delbecq had told me that you prefer to attend to 
business yourself without annoying the Count. 

Countess.— Very well. Shall I call Delbecq? 

Derville. — His presence could be of no advan- 
tage to you, clever as he is. Listen to me more 
seriously, Madame, for the subject is a serious one 
to you. {he pauses for a moment, watching her at- 
tentively.) Colonel Chabert is alive. 

Countess (starting-, then laughing.) — Do you 
expect me to listen to you seriously when you talk 
such nonsense as that? {Derville does not take his 
eyes from her face. She ceases laughing suddenly. ) 

Derville. — Madame, I think that von do not 
realize the danger of your position. I need hardly 
tell you that Colonel Chabert has in his possession 
documents of undeniable authenticity, and that 



Act II. COLONEL CHABERT. 61 

positive proof can be brought as to his existence. 
Furthermore, you know that I am not a man to 
undertake a hopeless case. I have undertaken his. 

Countess. — It is a vile imposture ! An attempt 
to extort money from me! Bring suit, if you dare! 
I shall oppose your every step. I — 

Derville. — If you oppose our first step, namely, 
to prove the falsity of the death record, you will 
lose the suit before the primary court, and that 
once decided in our favor, you will have no ground 
to stand upon. Am I not right? 

Countess. — I cannot judge until I see the pa- 
pers. What is your object in seeing me to-day? 
What do you want ? 

Derville. — I want to talk to you calmly and 
quietly, but neither of the Colonel nor of you. I 
shall not even speak of the uses a clever lawyer, in 
possession of the facts of the case, might put his 
knowledge, nor the role he could play with the let- 
ters you received from your husband before you 
married Count Ferraud. 

Countess. — I have received no letters from any 
Colonel Chabert, and if anyone claims to be the 
Colonel, he is a swindler, some galley-slave, per- 
haps, like Cogniard. The mere thought makes me 
shudder. How could the Colonel come to life ? 
Bonaparte himself sent me his condolences by an 
aid-de-camp, and I now draw a pension of three 
thousand francs granted the widow by the Cham- 



62 COLONEl CHABERT. Act II. 



bres. I have every right to reject all Chaberts past 
and to come. 

Derville. — Happily, we are alone, Madame. 
We may lie without fear, (he shrugs his shoulders 
and says abruptly) The proof that Colonel Chab- 
ert' s first letter reached yon, is that as it contained 
a draft on you and — 

Countess. — A draft ! It contained no draft ! 

Derville [turning towards her and smiling.) — 
You received one letter then, Madame? See, now, 
you are caught in the first trap a lawyer lays for 
you, yet you think you can fight against justice. 
(she covers her face with her hands for a moment. 
Then coolly. ) 

Countess. — As you are the lawyer of the impos- 
tor Chabert, be so kind as to — 

Derville. — Madame, at this moment I am your 
lawyer as well as the Colonel's. Do you believe I 
wish to lose a client as valuable as yourself? But 
you do not listen. 

Countess. — Continue, sir. 

Derville. — Let us speak plainly. I will show 
you why I am your lawyer even if I have under- 
taken the other side also. Let me review the facts. 
You received your fortune from Colonel Chabert, 
and now you repulse him in his need. You are 
rich, immensely rich, yet your husband begs. Ah, 
Madame, Madame, a lawyer could be very eloquent 
on that subject, a subject that is itself eloquent. 



ACT II. COLONEL CHABERT. 63 



He could bring tears to the eyes of the judge him- 
self. He could do more than that; he could turn 
public opinion against you. 

Countess. — Ah, you rely, I see, upon touching 
the hearts of the judges. But even if I were to ad- 
mit the existence of your Colonel Chabert, the tri- 
bunaux will sustain my second marriage because of 
my children, and I myself freed by paying the 
Colonel two hundred and twenty-five thousand 
francs. 

Derville. — Madame, you can never tell how 
the tribunaux will decide a question of mere senti- 
ment. Look you, if on the one hand we have a 
mother and her children, on the other we have a 
man overwhelmed bv misfortune, a^ed before his 
time, and penniless through you. Decided in your 
favor, you would yet have a husband, a home. 
But he, where would he find a home ? Then there 
is a point on which the law is explicit. Your mar- 
riage with Colonel Chabert has not been annulled ; 
you are still his wife. Furthermore, if, in painting 
these scenes, the slightest odium attaches itself to 
you, another adversary may be raised up against 
you, one you have not forseen. That, Madame, is 
the danger from which I would save you. 

Countess. — A new adversary ! Who? 

Derville. — Count Ferraud, Madame. 

Countess. — Count Ferraud has a deep affection 
for me, and he would — 

Derville. — To a lawyer accustomed to read be- 



(>4 COLONEL CHABERT. Act II. 

tween the lines, this is mere nonsense. Do not 
misunderstand me. Count Ferraud has, at this 
moment, not the slightest desire, nor even the 
thought, to break your marriage, and I am sure he 
adores you. But, were he told that his marriage 
could be annulled, that his wife was to be brought 
as a criminal before the bar of public opinion — 

Countess. — He would defend me, sir. 

DERViLLE. — No, Madame, he would not. 

Countess. — Your reason. 

DERVILLE. — Simply because his marriage with 
you annulled, he could marry the only child of some 
peer of France, whose title would descend to him. 

{the Countess sinks into the chair.) 

DERVILLE {aside.) — I have her. {aloud.) You 
would not be so badly off, madame, if that were 
the case. A man covered with glorious achieve- 
ments, a general, a Count, a grand officer of the 
Legion d' honneur. That would not be such a bad 
exchange, if — he would have you. 

Countess. — Oh, enough, enough. Spare me. 
You have conquered. I can have no other lawyer 
but you. {she covers her face with her hands. ) 
What must I do? 

DERVILLE. — Compromise. 

{the Countess ibises and 7i'aiks hastily up 
and down. Then pausing.) 

Countess. — Does he love me vet? 



Act II. COLONEL CHABERT. 65 

Der viLLE. — Unfortunately, yes. 

{the Countess resumes her walk, thought- 
fully. ) 

Countess — Oh, I cannot decide at once. I can- 
not give you a definite answer to-day. I must 
think. You have given me much to ponder on. 

DervillE. — I trust I have shown you the weak- 
ness of your position, and — 

Countess. — Yes, my friend, I was misled by cir- 
cumstances that you will appreciate, and von have 
opened my eyes. I no longer think as I did, and 
I see that my course must be totally different from 
what I intended. I thank you, my friend, and 
must consult you further as to how best to arrange 
this for the best of all Can I not see your other 
client ? Not here, though. 

DervillE. — Colonel Chabert? Why, as to that 
— unless at my office — you know he is not lodged 
like a prince. 

Countess. — The very place. To-morrow at, 
say, ten ? 

DERVILLE. — Very well. I will arrange with 
Colonel Chabert. 

Countess. — Ah, Monsieur Derville, I am but a 
weak woman after all. How weak, your argu- 
ments have shown me. I am quite unnerved. 

DERVILLE, — Then, Madame, with your permis- 
sion I shall take my leave, {aside, as he goes out.) 



66 COLONEL CHABERT. Act II. 



What scheme has she now ? Too humble, my 
lady, to deceive me. 

{exit Derville.) 

Countess {laughing softly.) — Oh, wise young- 
man! You have, indeed, changed my plans. In- 
stead of showing me the weakness of my position, 
you have given me the keynote of my strength. 
{pause.) Poor Chabert! He is much changed. 
He was a handsome man. {pause. ) He loves me 
yet! Yes, he loved me well in those old days, 
and I — {she shrugs her shoulders.) He was an 
able man, too. From an unknown foundling to 
a Count. I did well to retain him, penniless and 
nameless though he was. Now I am a Countess, 
wealthy, courted. Then — (she shudders.) No 
more of that! Let that past remain buried, {she 
rises, resuming her walk.) If Chabert will ac- 
cede to my wishes and remain dead, all will be 
well. He must consent, {pause. Then she goes 
to mirror and examines her reflection. Then 
smiling triumphantly.) By the love he still has 
for me I will conquer him. 

End of Act Second. 



Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 



Act Third. 

Derville's office. Time, 9 A. M. 

Private office in front, general office at left-back, door at 
right-back, leading to another room. When the curtain 
rises the clerks are in the general office at work, Godeschal 
dictating, and Boucard in private office writing at table. 

Godeschal. — "But in his exalted and beneficent 
wisdom" — comma — "his majesty, Louis the eigh- 
teenth 1 ' — put that all in letters — "the moment he 
resumed the reins of power" — comma — "under- 
stood" — Oh, what did the fat joker understand? — 
"understood the high mission to which he had been 
called by divine Providence" — exclamation point 
and a dash; they are pious enough at the Palais 
Royal to let that pass— "And his first thought" — 
comma — "as is proved by the date of the ordinance 
hereinafter named" — comma — "was to repair the 
evils caused by the frightful and bloody disasters of 
our revolutionary times" — comma — "by restoring 
to his faithful and numerous adherents" — numer- 
ous is a fine piece of flattery, and should please the 
tribunal — u all their unsold property" — comma — 
"whether it be now included in the public domain" 
— comma — "in the ordinary or extraordinary crown 
domains" — comma — "or in the gifts to public in- 
stitutions" — dot your i's and cross your t's. 

1st Clerk.— T's. 

Godeschal. — Eh ! What is that? What have 
you written ? 



68 COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 



2d Clerk. — He has written, "Or in the gifts to 
public institutions dot your eyes and cross your 
teas," spelling them e-y-e-s and t-e-a-s. (all laugh.) 

Godeschal. — How is this, Hun'? Do you think 
that eyes and teas are law terms? 

Boucard. — Come, come! Not so much noise 
there. You have made me lose my count. Besides 
the master will be here in a few moments. 

Godeschal. — Erase that carefully, Hure. Here, 
let me see it. Heavens! What have yon done? 
(reading.) "But in his exalted and benevolent 
wisdom comma his majesty Louis the eighteenth 
put that all in letters" — Good Lord! — "the moment 
he recovered the rains" — r-a-i-n-s — "of power 
comma understood what did the fat joker under- 
stand" — Heavens and earth! This is enough to 
get the master disbarred. This is horrible. Here, 
take a fresh sheet of paper, and re-write this. If 
the master should see this, goodby to yon. There, 
I will wait until you catch up. (enter Dcrville 
tli rough general office. ) 

DERViLLE. — Good morning, gentlemen. 

Clerks. — Good morning, sir. 

(Dervdle enters private office and seats 
himself at desk, opening and reading letters. En- 
ter Colonel Chabert in general office.) 

Colonel Chabert. — Monsieur Derville, is he in? 

Godeschal. — He has just arrived. I will see 
if— 



Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 69 

Colonel Chabert. — I come by appointment. 

Godeschal. — In that case enter, sir. 

{Colonel Chabert enters private office. ) 

Derville. — Ah, good morning, Count. You 
are prompt. Leave us, Boucard. {Boucard goes 
out, closing the doors.) 

Colonel Chabert. — A poor man cannot afford 
to be late, monsieur. 

Derville. — Well, well, we shall have time to 
talk over our affairs before the Countess arrives. 
But, Colonel, how well you look to-day. You are 
another man. 

Colonel Chabert. — Monsieur, you have given 
me hope. 

Derville. — Then, truly, it is a soverain cure. 
But be seated and let us talk. I received your pa- 
pers from Heilsburg some days ago, and found 
them as you had stated. I also received an addi- 
tional letter from the surgeon of the hospital in 
which he states that the woman who saved you 
still lives. 

Colonel Chabert. — And I have no money. 

Derville. — Colonel, I will not conceal from 
you that, notwithstanding the fact that your papers 
are at hand, your case is excessively complicated. 

Colonel Chabert. — It is very simple, it seems 
to me. You all thought me dead. Well, here I 
am. Then give me back my wife and my fortune; 



70 COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 

give me the rank of General, to which I have a 
right, for I had passed Colonel the night before the 
battle of Eylau. 

Derville. — Ah, things are not done that way 
in law. Listen. Yon are Count Chabert, I admit, 
but to prove it legally to those whose interest it is 
to deny your existence — that is another matter. 
All yonr papers will be disputed, and each chal- 
lenge will open up a dozen or more preliminary 
questions. Each step will be fought to the Su- 
preme Court, and will involve expensive suits that 
will drag along however much I push them. Your 
adversaries will demand an inquiry, which we shall 
not be able to deny, and which will necessitate, 
perhaps, sending a commission to Prussia. But 
even supposing the most favorable circumstances, 
that you are recognized as Colonel Chabert, do we 
know how the question arising from the innocent 
bigamy of the Countess will be decided? In this 
the point of law is outside the code, and can be 
judged only by the law of conscience, as the juries 
often do in cases of social perversities brought up 
in criminal trials. Now, you had no children, 
while Count Ferraud had two. There lies the 
point. The judges can annul a marriage like 
yours in favor of Count Ferraud, in order to further 
the wellfare of the children, always supposing, of 
course, that the parents married in good faith. The 
case has many elements of duration. You may 
grow old before it does, struggling with the sharp- 
est anxieties. 



Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 71 

Colonel Chabert. — But my property? 

Derville. — You think that you have a large 
fortune ? 

Colonel Chabert. — Have I not an income of 
eighty thousand francs? 

Derville. — My dear Colonel, anticipating that 
question, I have investigated the matter. Here, 
then, is the state of the property. You made, 
in 1709, before your marriage, a will leaving a 
quarter of your whole property to the hospitals. 

Colonel Chabert. — True. 

Derville. — Well, when you were dead, was not 
an inventory necessary in order to settle the estate 
and give this quarter to the hospitals ? Yes, the 
estate was settled, and your wife did not scruple to 
cheat the poor. This inventory, in which she took 
care not to mention the money on hand, the jewelry 
and but little of the silver, and in which the furni- 
ture was appraised at two-thirds the full value, 
either to please her or to lessen the tax, the apprais- 
ers being liable to the amount of their valuations, 
this inventory gave your property as amounting to 
six hundred thousand francs. Your widow had a 
dower right to half. Everything was sold and 
bought in by her, she making by the transaction, 
and the hospitals got their seventy-five thousand 
francs. The state inheriting the remainder, the 
Emperor by a decree, you not having mentioned 
your wife in your will, returned to the widow that 



72 COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 

portion. Now, to what have you any right ? To 
three hundred thousand francs, less costs. 

Colonel Chabert. — Do you call that justice? 

DERVILLE. — It is the law. 

Colonel Chabert. — Fine law, that. 

DERVILLE. — But it is so, my poor Colonel. You 
see now what you thought so simple and easy is not 
so at all. And Madame Ferraud may also try to 
retain what the Emperor gave her. 

Colonel Chabert. — But she is not a widow 
and the decree is null. 

DERVILLE. — I admit that, but everything can be' 
argued. Listen. In these circumstances I think 
that a compromise is the best thing for all parties. 
You would gain a larger fortune that way than by 
asserting your rights. 

Colonel Chabert. — It would be selling my 
wife. 

DERVILLE. — With an income of twenty-four 
thousand francs you could choose another who 
would suit you better and make you happier. Be- 
lieve me, this is safest. 

Colonel Chabert. — Do you think I could win 
my case? 

DervillE. — Perhaps. To all appearances, yes. 
But, my dear Colonel Chabert, there is one point 
you do not remember. I am not rich and my prac- 
tice is not entirely paid for. If the courts would be 



Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 73 

willing to grant yon a provisional maintenance, 
that is an advance on your property, they would do 
so only after having recognized your claims as 
Colonel Chabert, Grand Officer of the Legion d' 
Honneur. 

Colonel Chabert. — True. I am Grand Officer 
of the Legion d' Honneur. I had forgotten that. 

DERVILLE. — Well, to continue. To get them to 
do that yon will have to bring suits, pay lawvers, 
employ sheriffs and — live. The cost of these pre- 
liminary steps will amount, at a rough estimate, to 
twelve or fifteen thousand francs. I have not that 
amount to lend yon, for I am already burdened by 
the enormous interest I have to pay. Where, then, 
will you get it ? 

Colonel Chabert. — I will go to the column of 
the Vendome and cry out, I am Colonel Chabert, 
who broke the Russian square at Eylan. The 
statue itself would recognize me. 

DERVILLE. — And they would imprison yon as 
mad. 

Colonel Chabert. — Perhaps I would stand a 
better chance at the war office. 

DERVILLE. — A government office ! The last 
place possible. The government would prefer get- 
ting rid of the Empire people. 

Colonel Chabert. — Ah, there is no place here 
in this world for me. 



74 COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 



DERVILLE. — Courage, my friend. Courage. We 
shall bring this case to a happy ending yet. But 
you must give me your entire confidence, and place 
yourself blindly in my hands. 

Colonel Chabert. — Well, do as you wish with 
me. 

DERVILLE. — Then I am your general, you my 
regiment ready to inarch to death. 

Colonel Chabert. — Good. But must I live 
without a name, without station? That would be 
horrible. 

DERVILLE. — Certainly not. We will bring an 
amicable suit to annul the record of your death, 
and also your marriage, so that you may resume 
your place in society. You might even be restored 
to your place in the arm}', or by Count F errand's 
influence raised to the rank of General, and you 
would doubtless get a pension. 

Colonel Chabert. — Well, then, so be it. I 
trust myself entirely to you. 

Derville. — Then sign this power of attorney. 
{placing document before Chabert, who signs.) 
Now, Colonel, pray attend carefully to this. Do 
not have any communication with your wife. If 
she seeks you, avoid her, and under no circum- 
stances sign any document or paper at her solicita- 
tion or at the solicitation of any person, except in 
my presence. This is important. Courage, my 
friend. I see good fortune yet in store for yon. 
Do you need money ? 



Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 75 



Colonel Chabert. — My needs are supplied 
through vour generosity. I should like to reward — 
but no matter. I must wait until I get my rights. 



Derville. — Ah, a carriage. Countess Ferraud 
comes. Now, Colonel, I must speak with her alone 
before you meet. Will you have the kindness to 
enter there? {Chabert goes out.) 

Derville. — So far, good. But the Countess is 
another matter. I must discover what scheme she 
has. 

Godeschal {entering from general office.) — A 
lady to see you, sir. 

DERVILLE. — Admit her. {enter Countess Fer- 
raud veiled.) Leave us, Godeschal. {Godeschal 
goes out. ) 

{Countess Ferraud removes veil. Derville 
places chair for her.) 

Derville. — Madame, before your interview 
with Colonel Chabert, it would be best to submit 
to you, I think, the articles of agreement, so that I 
may obtain your opinion of them before consider- 
ing them with him. While I am indebted to 
Colonel Chabert for many points that will appear, 
he has not yet seen the agreement nor heard its 
terms. It is at present merely a rough draft, con- 
sequently I will, with your permission, read it to 
you. 

Countess. — Proceed, sir. I am listening. 



COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 



DERVILLE {reading.) — "Articles of agreement 
made this blank day of blank between the under- 
signed, Paul Hyacinthe, alias Chabert, Count, 
Major-General and Grand Officer of the Legion d' 
Honneur, of the rue du Petit Banquier, Paris, of 
the first part, and Rose Chapotel, wife of Count 
Chabert, the above-named, daughter of — 

Countess. — Enough, enough. Let us omit the 
preamble and consider the conditions. 

DERVILLE. — Madame, this preamble is absolutely 
necessary, and furthermore it explains succinctly 
the position of the subscribers. However, since 
you wish it, I will omit reading it. Here then are 
the conditions. First, that you recognize in the 
presence of three witnesses, who are to be two no- 
taries and the cowkeeper with whom your husband 
has lived and to whom I have confided the facts of 
the case under promise of secrecy, that you recog- 
nize, as I say, that the individual named herein, 
but whose identity is elsewhere proved in an affi- 
davit prepared by Alexander Crotat, your notary, to 
be Count Chabert, your first husband. Second, 
that Count Chabert will agree to make no use of 
his rights as your husband, except as may be here- 
inafter noted in another clause, which is as to the 
non-fulfillment of the terms of this agreement. 
Third, that Count Chabert will agree to sue with 
you for an amicable decree to annul the record of 
his death, and to dissolve his marriage with you. 

Countess. — But that does not suit me at all. I 
do not want to go to law. You know why. 



Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 77 

{enter Chabert at back, unperceived. ) 

DervillE. — Fourth, that you will secure to 
Count Chabert, under the name of Paul Hyacinthe, 
a contingent annuity of twenty-four thousand 
francs, to be in public funds, the same to revert to 
you upon his death, and — 

Countess. — But that is far too dear! 

DervillE. — Did you think that you could com- 
promise for less? 

Countess. — That is too much. 

DERVILLE. — What, then, do you want, Madame? 

Countess. — I want — I — I do not want to go to 
law. I want — 

DervillE. — Him to remain dead. 

Countess. — Well, sir, if he must have twenty- 
four thousand francs income, I will risk a suit. It 
is extortion and I will not submit. I will demand 
justice. I will — 

Colonel Chabert. — Yes, justice. (coming 
forward, pointing to his empty sleeve.) 

Countess {aside.) — It is he! 

Colonel Chabert. — Too dear! too dear! And 
I gave you almost a million. So! you would trade 
upon my misfortunes, haggle about a pittance that 
I consented to beg of you like a pauper, so that 
you would not have to blush before the world of 
fashion you have reached. Too dear! And I, 
what do I pay for this love I have borne for you 



78 COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 



even when you closed your doors to me while I was 
starving in the streets of Paris ? To be nameless, 
homeless, friendless, unknown! I did not consider 
these too dear! All I asked of you was enough to 
keep me from hunger and to pay my debts. It is 
too dear. Well, then, I will take all. I gave you 
your fortune, I will take it back again, and you 
too. You are my wife. 

Countess. — But Monsieur is not Colonel Cha- 
bert? 

Colonel Chabert. — Ah! Do you wish proofs? 
In those old days I was not so particular. I was a 
foundling, but you, what were you ? Before I met 
you I know not what you were, but I took you 
from the pavements of the Palais Royal Ah! you 
remember? Shall I continue? Shall I tell who 
you were with and what became of him ? Ah ! 
Yes. I know that secret too. Am I not Chabert ? 

End of Act Third. 



Act IV. COLONEL CHABERT. 79 



Act Fourth. 

Country residence of Count Ferraud at Groslay. Library in 
same, with windows opening upon veranda, and showing lawn 
and park. Afternoon. 

{enter Chabert and Delbecq. ) 

Colonel Chabert. — For the hundredth time I 
ask you, Monsieur, where do you take me? What 
do you wish with me ? You take me in your car- 
riage, drive me away from the city, and offer me 
no explanations! We arrive here, and still no an- 
swer to my questions. I now demand a reply. 
Speak, Monsieur. 

Delbecq. — Pray have patience, my dear sir. I 
intend you no harm, rather to do you good. I am 
acting merely upon the instructions I have received 
from another, who will give you all explanations, 
will answer all the questions you have put to me. 
With your permission I will now announce your 
arrival. (Delbeeq goes out.) 

Colonel Chabert. — With my permission ! 
Faith, the world must be tired of giving me curses 
and is going to kill me with politeness. But who 
is this other that causes me to be carried here? An 
intrigue? Bah! Chabert of the Restoration is 
not like Chabert of the Empire. An old friend 
who has recognized me? Ah, I would not have 
recognized myself, and then friends of prosperity 
are not always friends of adversity. Who then ? 
Well, no matter. I shall soon find out. (he in- 



80 COLONEL CHABERT. Act IV. 

spects room.) Faith, they live well here and have 
good taste. Good, that pleases me. The effect is 
good, (he looks out of window.) By Mars! what 
a place for a battle! That would please the Em- 
porer. Ah, Saint Helena! Saint Helena! (he con- 
tinues his examination of the room, and stops be- 
fore the portrait of two children.) Ah, if I had 
had children! They would have recognized me, 
changed as I am. They would not have refused 
me a crust of bread. They would not have treated 
me so infamously, {he seats himself and rests his 
head in his hands, in deep thought.) 

{enter Countess and Delbecq at side.) 

Countess (aside.) — It is he. Good. Did he 
come willingly? 

Delbecq (aside.) — Perfectly. 

Countess (aside.) — And you told him nothing? 

Delbecq (aside.) — Nothing. 

Countess (aside. ) — Good. Now leave us. Have 
the papers you have prepared at hand. I will call 
you in a few moments. 

(Delbecq goes out.) 

(Countess approaches Chabert and places 
her hand on his arm.) 

Countess. — Paul. 

(silence for some moments, he gazing at 
her wondering ly. ) 



Act IV. [COLONEL CHABERT. 81 

Countess. — Paul, I knew you the moment I saw 

you. 

Colonel Chabert. — Rosine! 

Countess. — Yes, Paul, I knew you. Though it 
has been years since I last saw you, though every 
feature of your face has changed, the moment I saw 
you and heard your voice, I knew you. 

Colonel Chabert. — Yet you denied me, Rosine! 

Countess. — Yes, I denied you. Ah, Paul, in 
the many years since we parted, have you changed, 
too, as well as your appearance ? The old Chabert 
would not have said that, would not have reproach- 
ed me with that denial. Yes, I did deny you. 
Can you wonder at it? Could you not see what it 
must have cost me to appear as I did before a 
stranger? How could I do anything else but act a 
part, with that lawyer's eyes upon me, waiting to 
see me humbled, trying to read my thoughts in my 
agitation? Think, think what a false position must 
mine have been, and what would have been my 
shame to be compelled to acknowledge it. If I am 
to blush for myself, abase myself, let it be before 
you alone. See, now I deny nothing, conceal noth- 
ing. I lay open my heart to you. You are Count 
Chabert. You are my husband. 

Colonel Chabert — Oh, Rosine, Rosine! Those 
words give me life. I forget my misfortunes, my 
sufferings. 

Countess. — Yes, you have suffered much. But 
I, have I not suffered too? What am I? A widow, 



82 COLONEL CHABERT. Act IV. 



yet my husband lives; married, yet he whom I 
married is not my husband. Though innocent, I 
am a criminal. Paul, be just to me. You think 
that I have been hard, cruel to you. Can you 
blame me for my indifference to the tale of misfor- 
tunes of a Chabert in whose existence I had no 
reason, no cause to believe? Oh, I know what you 
would say. Yes, I received your letters, but what 
did they prove to me? They reached me three 
months after the battle of Eylau, three long months 
after you had been killed and buried. If it had 
been really Chabert why had he not written to his 
wife before? Then the condition of the letters 
themselves; they were opened, soiled, hardly legi- 
ble, in nothing like you. How could I believe you 
to be other than an impostor? Why should I think 
that Napoleon had been deceived? He had seen 
you fall in battle; had seen a thousand horsemen 
ride over your body; had sent his surgeons to see 
your corpse. Then he sent an aid-de-campe to tell 
me the tidings, the story of your death, condoling 
with me for my loss of a dear husband, and his loss 
of a brave soldier. They showed me the certificate 
of your burial; the journals were filled with regrets 
for your untimely end. What right had I to sup- 
pose that all were wrong? I could not think them 
so, could not think otherwise than that you were 
an impostor, one who had heard the story of my 
loss — for who had not heard it? — and had conceived 
the frightful idea of trading on my grief. I did 
believe this, and thinking so it was necessary for 
me to take precautions to meet your attacks. I 



Act IV. COLONEL CHABERT. 83 

could not ask aid from Count Ferraud. I could not 
tell him how cruelly I was beset, yet I had to pro- 
tect myself and him. Was I not right in doing 
this. 

Colonel Chabert. — Yes, you were right and I 
was mad not to foresee this. Rosine, I have wrong- 
ed you. I have thought too harshly of you. 

Countess. — Ah, my friend, on what little things 
do our lives often depend ! Is it not horrible to 
look back and realize that what seemed to us then 
so small, so unimportant, so easily avoided, was in 
reality a momentous event, deciding irrevocably 
our whole after life? If you had told me your 
whole story in your first letter, giving it but the 
appearance of reality so that I might have doubted 
in the least degree the weight of the evidence 
against you, how different would have been our 
lives ! Or if I had had courage to tell others of that 
letter, clumsy imposture as I thought it was, it 
would have been investigated. Either would have 
been so easy, you to have been more frank, I to 
overcome my pride. But we did neither. You 
stated merely that you were alive and asked for 
money, and I concealed the letter. But no more 
of this. Regrets will avail us nothing. The evil 
has been done. Can we repair it ? What is best 
for us to do? This is what we must consider and 
consult about. It is for this I brought you here, to 
my country place near Groslay. Here we can be 
alone, without fear of interruption, forw T e must de- 
cide this question for ourselves, must we not ? We 



COLONEL CHABERT. Act IV. 



do not wish to become the talk of Paris. To a 
man that would matter but little, but to a woman, 
to me, it is everything. The talk, the scandal, 
that would be horrible; but the odium, the ridi- 
cule that would be ours, that would be worse. We 
must preserve our dignity, (she touches the blue 
ribbon on his coat.) That must not be dishonored. 

Colonel Chabert. — You are right. Anything 
but that. 

Countess. — Yet how are we to decide? What 
can we take to guide us? Can we be guided by 
the same things ? Shall we take the law, that 
calm, impassive logic, reasoning from a cause to 
an effect, that Juggernaut grinding feelings, affec- 
tions, moral duties beneath its resistless power ? 
You have a right to this, but I, can I mistake my 
duty ? The law says I am your wife, that I had 
no right to marry again. But you died to me. 
Was I not then free to form other ties? And are 
these new ties to be broken, cut asunder because of 
a mistake that no man could have forseen ? Oh, 
Paul, you are my judge, the one and only arbiter 
of my fate. In your hands lie the power. Be gen- 
erous to me. Ah, you feel for me. Something 
tells me I may hope in your mercy, trust in the 
nobleness of your nature. You will not blast the 
lives of those who love me. 

Colonel Chabert {after a few moments^ si- 
lence. ) — Rosine. 

Countess. — Yes, Paul? 



Act IV. COLONEL CHABERT. 85 

Colonel Chabert. — The dead should never re- 
turn to earth. 

Countess. — Oh, no, no, Paul. Do not say that. 
Believe me, I am not selfish and ungrateful. If I 
were alone, there would be no question, no hesita- 
tion. But I am not alone. And, Paul, I will hide 
nothing from you. Count Ferraud loves me and 
I — I love him. Ah, did I not believe myself free 
to love him ? When you died I was alone, I had 
no friends, no relative, nothing to live for. I was 
not a mother. 

Colonel Chabert (looking at portrait. ) — Are 
these your children ? 

Countess. — Yes. 

Colonel Chabert (regarding it sadly for 
awhile^ then looks around the room as if in search 
for something.) — And where is his — the other? 

Countess. — My husband — I mean — I — how shall 
I speak of Count Ferraud ? 

Colonel Chabert. — Call him your husband, 
my poor child. 

Countess. — I have no portrait of him here. 

(Chabert turns again to the portrait. His 
lips move as if speaking to himself!) 

Colonel Chabert. — It is only just, I must re- 
turn to my grave. My dear, I have decided. Rest 
tranquil in your present home. I am the one to 
make the sacrifice. 



COLONEL CHABERT. Act IV. 



Countess. — Oh, Paul, what can I say to you? 
How can I let you do this? You have suffered so 
much, borne so much, and I have been the inno- 
cent cause of many of your trials. You should 
hate me, trample on me. 

Colonel Chabert. — I love you. 

Countess. — How can I let you do it? 

Colonel Chabert (pointing to portrait.) — For 
their sake. They are innocent of all wrong. And, 
my child, I do not blame you now. Once I thought 
you hated me for coining to life again; that you 
knew I was alive and that you knowingly and in- 
tentionally denied my existence. But that is past. 
You are innocent of all wrong, your children are 
innocent, your husband is innocent. And God 
knows I, too, am innocent. Oh, life, life! What 
a poor muddle you are! If that Russian had only 
been a little stronger, all would have been well. 
But we must not sacrifice four lives for one. I will 
renounce my name, my station, — you. Well, what 
matters it! A few years more or less and the com- 
edy will be over. I am indeed an old man. 

Countess. — But to do this authentically — 

Colonel Chabert. — Authentically! Will not 
my word suffice ? But, no, no, my child. I do 
not mean that. Since it is to be done, let it be 
done well. Draw up your papers and let me sign 
them. All I ask is enough to live on and to re- 
ward those who have been kind to me. 



Act IV. COLONEL CHABERT. 87 



Countess. — I will send my secretary to you and 
you can talk it over together. He has, I believe, 
drawn up a paper — 

Colonel Chabert. — Ah! It is already drawn 
up! You were confident. 

Countess. — Did I not know you were Chabert? 
(she kisses him and goes out. ) 

Colonel Chabert. — Alas! Poor ghost! Poor, 
useless ghost! It is time for you to return to your 
grave. Yet it must be so. I have often thought 
that my only hope, and now everything warns me 
that I am not wanted. Not to be wanted! To 
find no resting place but in the grave! I have 
grown old, old, old, and I have not realized it. 
Life has swept beyond me while I was held in my 
tomb, and left me stranded, flotsam of days gone 
by. France has no need of me, no place for me. 
Well, let it be so. 

(enter Delbecq.) 

DELBECQ (placing papers on table. ) — I trust that 
you are not still angry with me ? 

Colonel Chabert. — Ah, my captor. No ill- 
will, my friend. So, you are secretary to Countess 
Ferraud ? 

Delbecq. — Yes, Colonel, I have that honor. 

Colonel Chabert. — Ah, you know me. You 
are in her confidence. Well, it is perhaps better. 
You have some papers for me to sign, Monsieur ? 
(Delbecq goes to table and unties papers. ) 



88 COLOOEL CHABERT. Act IV. 



Colonel Chabert {aside.) — Why do I distrust 
this man ? He can do me no harm. I am past 
that. 

Delbecq. — Here, Colonel, is a document you 
will have to sign in order to make your renunciation 
legal. I have marked the place for your signature, 
Write your name in full, if you please. [Chabert 
prepares to sign. ) 

Delbecq [aside.) — He suspects nothing, (aloud.) 
Ah, Colonel, you have signed many a paper in 
your life, no doubt. 

Colonel Chabert. — Yes, but not lately. The 
last I signed was in the office of Monsieur Derville 
— (he stops suddenly as if remeifibering something. 
He looks searchingly at Delbecq, then at the paper. 
He throzvs down the pen. ) I will read the paper 
first. (he reads.} 

Delbecq (aside.) — He is no fool after all. 

Colonel Chabert. — But this is infamous ! 

Delbecq (in a lozv tone.} — Well, I would not ad- 
vise you to sign too quickly. 

Colonel Chabert (tearing paper.} — I shall not 
sign at all. 

DELBECQ (after assuring himself that no one is 
listening.) — You are right. Sign nothing. You 
can make an income of at least thirty thousand 
francs out of this. If you make it an object to 
me — 



Act IV. COLONEL CHABERT. 89 

Colonel Chabert. — So ! You are false to the 
Countess, as well as unworthy of the name of hon- 
est man ! Away ! Out of my path ! I will have no 
dealings with such as you. (he goes out on ver- 
anda. ) 

DELBECQ [picking up the torn paper. ) — He is not 
such a fool as he looks. I did not think he would 
sign without looking, though the Countess did. If 
she had taken my advice, and put the matter a lit- 
tle milder, filled it with legal phrases, he could not 
have understood it. My judgeship looks a little 
distant at present. She will be terribly angry. I 
hope he will not tell her that I advised him not to 
sign. If he does, I may give up all hope of Count 
Ferraud's aid in my preferment. I was a fool to 
do it. (enter Countess.) 

Countess. — Well, did he sign? 

DELBECQ (showing Iter the torn paper.) — No, 
Madame, he did this. I do not know how it hap- 
pened, but the moment when he had all but signed, 
he took it into his head to read it. Then, of course, 
it was all over. I advised Madame to word it dif- 
ferently, (enter Chabert, in deep thought, not 
observing them. ) 

Countess. — What made the old fool do that? 
( Chabert starts. ) 

DELBECQ. — He is as stubborn as an old mule. 

Countess. — He must be put in the mad-house. 



90 COLONEL CHABERT. Act IV. 

(Chabert comes forzvard and runs against 
Delbecq, whom he kicks and throws out of the 
window. ) 

Colonel Chabert. — Mules kick, (he returns 
slowly from the window, regarding the Countess 
fixedly.) Oh, Rosine ! (he sinks in chair and rests 
his head on table. After a few moments silence the 
Countess kneels beside him and places her hand on 
his arm.) 

Countess. — Paul! 

Colonel Chabert (springing up.) — Do not 
touch me! Your touch is contamination, [he paces 
up and down. Then pauses before her. ) I do not 
curse you. I do not hate you. I despise you. You 
have sunk too low even for vengeance, for we do 
not take vengeance on a cur. (he sfrurns her with 
his foot.) Get up! So! Let me look at you. Yes, 
I know you now, know the very depth of your lit- 
tle, contemptible nature, your greedy, selfish heart. 
I can now thank the chance that separated us, the 
sufferings and horrors that I have passed through 
prove to be blessings. Rather the grave than life 
with such as you. Live tranquil. I shall claim 
nothing from you, since to do that I might be 
forced to take you too. I shall not even claim the 
name I have perhaps rendered illustrious. I do not 
wish that to be besmirched with your infamy. If 
you have any humanity, any spark of womanly 
feeling, and I suppose you must have some since 
you are a mother, you will see that Monsieur Der- 



Epilogue. COLONEL CHABERT. 91 



ville is paid, and that the woman who saved me is 
rewarded. I require this of you. See that it is 
done. You shall never see me again, never hear of 
me, unless you fail in my last command. You will 
do this? 

Countess. — Yes, yes. 

Colonel Chabert. — It is well. Then you have 
my word. You are safe. Authentically! {he lauglis 
bitterly.} What is more binding than a soldier's 
word ? 

End of Act Fourth. 



Epilogue. 

Road outside of Paris. Fifteen years are supposed to pass 
between Act IV. and Epilogue. 

{Enter Derville and Godeschal.) 

Derville. — Yes, Godeschal, I have decided. I 
shall leave Paris forever, buy a place in the coun- 
try somewhere, and live there tranquilly until I die. 
I am no longer young and am not able to work as I 
have done. Paris has become repugnant to me. I 
know it too well, and it fills me with horror. It is 
so fair to look upon, yet this beautiful semblance is 
but the covering of brutal vice. I can see nothing 
but the ghostly skeleton beneath the fair exterior. 
Do you know, my friend, there are three classes of 
men who cannot respect humanity, the priests, the 



92 COLONEL CHABERT. Epilogue. 



doctors and the lawyers? They all receive confes- 
sions, and carry on their shoulders the burden of 
the sins of others. Of the three, the lawyer bears 
the most. To the priest confession is contrition. 
Evil comes to him in remorse, repentant, seeking 
reformation. These are qualities that console, 
reconcile, purify the confessor. To the doctor it is 
a disease. He analyzes through the medium of 
science, and science changes the evil to a result, 
establishing a logical chain from the cause to effect, 
and the confessor becomes a logician, a scientist. 
Both priest and doctor can cure. But with us, we 
have the same evils without the consolations of re- 
pentance and of science, and we do not cure. We 
do not hear, " I am sorry " or "I am better." It 
is always "Help me to escape," "Help me 
hide." No reparation, no atonement, only to 
avoid the consequences. Ah, my friend, what have 
I not seen, what vice and crime has not passed 
through my office! I have seen fathers dying in 
poverty while their children roll in wealth. I have 
seen wills burned. I have seen mothers despoiling 
their children, husbands robbing their wives, wives 
killing their husbands. I have seen crimes and 
evils against which justice is powerless. All the 
catalogue of crimes and horrors that romance could 
conceive would not complete the list of those daily 
and nightly committed in our midst. Ah, my 
friend, you are just beginning to learn these agree- 
able things, but I have had enough of them. 

Godeschal. — Yes, my dear old master, I know 
you are right. Paris, underneath, is the sink-hole 



Epilogue. COLONEL CHABERT. 93 



of crime and contamination. Even I have seen 
some of the crimes yon mention. 

DERViLLE. — Yon have been with me for a long 
time, Godeschal, and I take a fatherly interest in 
yon. Do not let yourself grow callous and indif- 
ferent in your contact with these horrors. Take a 
leaf from my receipt-book. Go often to the coun- 
try. Man made the city, but God made the coun- 
try, and it is in the country that we come nearest to 
Him. Come here, if you can do no better. It is 
where I have spent many a happy hour, though not 
lately. Ah, I knew it well. See, over there is the 
new poor-house. They were digging the founda- 
tions when I was here last. 

Godeschal. — Yes, and here come some of the 
unfortunate inmates. 

{enter Chabert and several other paupers. 
Chabett seats himself on a rock by the roadside. ) 

DERViLLE. — Yes, it is so. Poor, unfortunate 
creatures! Why is it, Godeschal, that we all look 
upon this as the crowning misfortune of a life of 
misery? These men have probably never known 
such comforts in all their lives, yet notice their 
mournful expression, as if they felt this to be the 
acme of their degradation. See, they all have it, all 
except that old fellow with the pipe, and he is al- 
most past feeling anything. He — Merciful Heav- 
ens! Can it be? 

Godeschal. — Who ? What ? 



94 COLONEL CHABERT. Epilogue. 



DervillE. — It is not possible! But yet, it must 
be. That face, that scar, the missing arm — it is 
even so. What an ending! 

Godeschal. — My dear friend, what has startled 
you ? 

Derville. — I was startled by the discovery of 
the termination of a hideous drama that has been 
on my mind for fifteen years, and that has always 
been a mystery to me. I called your attention to 
that old man with the pipe. Observe him well. 
In him I find the solution. He is the victim of a 
deadlier and baser ingratitude than I ever imag- 
ined. Poor, poor man. Oh, Godeschal, the sight 
of him makes my heart bleed. 

Godeschal. — Who is he, then ? 

Derville. — You know the Countess Ferraud? 

Godeschal. — Yes, I have seen her. 

Derville. — That old pauper is her legitimate 
husband, Colonel Chabert, and a Count of the Em- 
pire. 

Godeschal. — Ah, he who was reported killed at 
Eylau ? Why, then, is he here ? 

Derville. — If he is here, it is because he re- 
minded a woman that he took her, like a cab, from 
the streets. Ah, I saw the gleam of deadly hate 
in her eyes when he exposed her. This, then, is 
her revenge. Well, it is worthy of her. 

Godeschal. — May one know the history? You 
have excited my sympathy for the old man. 



Epilogue- COLONEL CHABERT. 95 

Derville. — It is a long- story, but I can give 
you the principal points. Colonel Chabert was left 
for dead and was buried on the battlefield of Eylau. 
Escaping his tomb by a miracle, he is stricken by 
disease. Finally, after unheard of sufferings, he 
reaches Paris, only to be repulsed and denied by 
his wife, who had re-married, but who had received 
a letter from her husband before her second mar- 
riage. She, therefore, knew that Chabert was 
alive, but trusted that poverty and suffering would 
kill him or drive him out of his senses. After 
vainly trying to find some lawyer to take up his 
case, that was to be restored to his fortune and 
position, he came to me. Just why I did not be- 
lieve him to be mad, as did all the others he had 
applied to, I cannot tell. Something about the 
man convinced me that he was what he claimed to 
be. Then I received from Germany papers proving 
beyond question his identity. Well, the day after 
the interview in my office between Colonel Chabert 
and his wife, in which he reminds her of her origin, 
he disappears, completely and without leaving a 
trace. A few days after this I received a letter 
from the Countess in which she states that the 
Colonel has admitted that he is an impostor and 
has dropped all claim against her. I searched for 
him for some time, knowing him to be Colonel 
Chabert and suspecting foul play, but until this 
moment have never received any tidings concerning 
him. He is Colonel Chabert, yet he is here, a pau- 
per. Let us go closer and see if he remembers me. 



96 COLONEL CHABERT. Epilogue. 



{during the foregoing speech all the paupers 
but Chabert have gone out.) 

Derville. — Good morning, comrade. 

Colonel Chabert (saluting.) — Good morning, 
good morning. 

DERVILLE (aside to Godeschal.) — Ah, no, he has 
no recollection of my voice. 

Godeschal. — Call him by name. 

Derville. — Colonel Chabert! 

Colonel Chabert. — Not Chabert, not Chabert, 
Monsieur. My name is Hyacinthe, number 164, 
seventh division. I — I — Monsieur Derville ! 

Derville. — Do you remember me? 

Colonel Chabert. — Yes, Monsieur. 

Derville. — How is it that if you are an honest 
man you have been content to remain my debtor? 

Colonel Chabert. — What ! Has not Madame 
Ferraud paid you? 

DERVILLE. — Paid me! She wrote me that you 
acknowledged yourself to be an impostor. 

Colonel Chabert. — My God ! Can this be 
true? She promised — Have you a piece of paper? 
And a crayon? Thank you, thank you. (he 
writes.') Send that to her, Monsieur, send that to 
her. She will pay you. Believe me, I have not 
forgotten your generosity to me. That is the one 
bright remembrance of my life. But a pauper can 



Epilogue. COLONEL CHABERT. 97 

do little more than remember, and sometimes not 
even that, sometimes not even that. 

Derville. — But, Colonel, why are you here? 
If you consented to renounce everything, did you 
not at least stipulate an income? 

Colonel Chabert. — No, no, do not speak of 
that. I have forgotten all that, forgotten all that. 
At least I try to do so. It comes back to me some- 
times, though, in all the horrid vividness of that 
last scene, when she stood unmasked in all the rot- 
tenness of her heart. No, no! Let me not think 
of that! The thought is madness. 

Godeschal. — You have overexerted yourself. 
There, lean back and rest. 

DERVILLE. — But your life here must be horrible. 

Colonel Chabert. — Here? In the poor-house? 
I do not live there. My poor body rests there, but 
not I, not I. I live in the past. The present is 
nothing to me. Napoleon is dead. What have I 
to live for? Nothing, nothing, nothing. My pipe 
is my only friend. We sit and think together. 
Great friends, great friends. 

Derville. — But, Colonel Chabert — 

Colonel Chabert. — Not Chabert, not Chabert. 
Hyacinthe, the old soldier, Monsieur. He is not 
married. He is happy. 

Godeschal. — Poor man. The momentary flash 
of intelligence has gone out. He is in his second 
childhood. 



98 COLONEL CHABERT. Epilogue. 

Derville. — Oh, Godeschal, Godeschal ! Let us 
go. This scene unnerves me. I can stand no 
more. What a fate! [exit Derville and Code- 
sclial. ) 

(Chabert does not notice their departure, 
but continues staring vacantly, amusing himself 
by letting sand run through his fingers. Gradu- 
ally his actions become more and more zveak, and 
he leans against the tree, apparently dying. ) 

Colonel Chabert {in a very weak voice. ) — 
Great friends, great friends. We are — {the words 
cease to be audible, but his lips continue moving. 
Suddenly he sits erect.) The day is ours! For- 
ward! ! Viva Napoleon! ! Viva Napol — [he sinks 
back dead.) 

Finis. 

i 



